The Broken Sword

by R. Mingo Sweeney

  “Manie, how could I?” answered MacQueen, sitting on the arm of her chair. “But I’ve a favour to ask. A friend of mine is in that corvette at the Armament Depot and would like to join us, only he hasn’t got a date. Could you fix him up with someone…congenial?”

  “Do you realize, MacQueen, that this is my last night here? I leave tomorrow—and you not only bring someone else into our little party but you’re asking me to procure for him!” Her eyes squinted, and her mouth became a hard line.

  “Manie, I didn’t know it was your last night! Anyway, it’s only a blind date, not ‘procuring’, as you call it.”

  “Shit,” answered Manie. “Do you think I don’t know what the requirements are? You left it bloody late but I’ll see what can be done, you clod.”

  “Here then, at six okay?”

  “I suppose so—we have to eat.”

  “You’re a sweetheart and I’ll be as good as gold all night.”

  He rejoined MacDwine with an apology, and they settled themselves on a comfortable chesterfield in the corner.

  “You’ve been here for some time?” queried MacDwine, already knowing the answer. “The commander doesn’t know how he’d run the base without you. He said that sometimes he thinks your petty officer tries to run the place without him!”

  “Oh?” MacQueen was curious. “Does the commander know Petty Officer Low then?”

  “They’ve had a couple of chats. Business, I guess. Anyway, I think we should understand one another if we’re going to be the last of the bunch to leave.”

  MacQueen looked at his new companion more closely. He had a dissolute look about the mouth and eyes that darted hither and yon for no apparent purpose. He was sitting tensely at the edge of his seat, with elbows on his knees, toying with his glass and cigarette. His cufflinks were ornate, as was his large wristwatch. His handkerchief was tucked into his left sleeve, in Royal Navy fashion, and the top button of his jacket was undone, signifying service in the destroyer squadron.

  “Oh? What is there to understand?”

  MacDwine took his glass. “It’s my treat today.”

  MacQueen relaxed back in the chair. The new drinks were doubles, which was a pretty heavy load before lunch. It was the weekend, so he refrained from comment.

  “There are fortunes to be made in winding up bases—if everyone cooperates,” MacDwine continued.

  “Do you plan to steal the dockyard?” asked MacQueen. His companion laughed and took a deep drink.

  “That wouldn’t be necessary,” he said. “Anyway, with you as security officer it would be pretty risky. No, I’m talking mainly about mess funds and all of these furnishings—everything of all the various messes. We are combining it all now. In a few months’ time there’ll only be a half dozen of us at the most, all on the Mess Committee. We’ll then decide what happens to it all.”

  “Something seems wrong with that tidy arrangement,” said MacQueen slowly. “There must be thousands in the kitty.”

  “You wouldn’t believe it,” said MacDwine, smiling. “Those stupid bastards that hurried home left a gold mine here!”

  “…And we’re outside Canada?”

  “That’s the point.”

  Well, thought MacQueen, there it is! Pillage. The just rewards to the warrior when the war is over. Loot in great quantities, available for the taking. If he did his job and kept his mouth shut, he would return home stuffed with dollars, carpets, furniture, and liquor. A few months? He could withdraw from the coup or referendum or whatever was planned, and become a relatively rich man. Lord knew he could use the money. If, on the other hand, he opposed them, he would be transferred or demobilized. The commander’s secret had been intimated, and if he didn’t play along he would then have to be shut up in some way. Would they have the guts to do it? Anything could be arranged if the price was big enough.

  “It’s an interesting proposition. I’ll have to think it over,” answered MacQueen, playing for time. MacDwine got to his feet and looked down at him.

  “You do that, eh?” he said. “And remember we all need one another. I’ll be taking over as mess secretary soon. You are security, and the commander is mess president. It can’t fail.”

  “What of Lieutenant Cossit? He’s mess secretary now.”

  “Just leave all of that to us. And don’t take too long with all your thinking. So long, I’ll see you around.”

  “Thanks for the drinks,” added MacQueen.

  “It’s nothing,” replied MacDwine, heading for the door.

  Jesus, thought MacQueen, what next? He recalled the comment about the commander’s meetings with the petty officer. He hadn’t heard of any rendezvous between those two unlikely collaborators. In fact, Petty Officer Low supposedly hated the commander’s guts—and what were their plans for Jimmy Cossit? It all seemed very murky, and he was starting to become sick to death of intrigue.

  The chief steward came over to tell MacQueen that he was wanted on the telephone. “I’d like a word with you after, sir, if you don’t mind,” he requested.

  “I’ll go to your office, Chief,” answered MacQueen, going to the bar and accepting the extension line.

  “Hello, ol’ buddy,” came the easily recognizable voice of Freddie Seaton. “How are you doing?”

  “Hello, Freddie,” answered MacQueen. “I’ve just fixed up your date, and I’ll have a car there for you at 1730, okay? Come on up here, we’ll have some drinks and a meal, then carry on to the zombies’ dance.”

  “Christ, are they zombies?”

  “Of course…but not the officers, I think. Anyway, there’s only one way to find out.”

  “Hell yes. I’d go to a dance with dragons right now. What’s my girl like—do I get laid?”

  “That’s up to you, ol’ buddy! I can’t do everything for you, y’know. Some things a man has to do himself.”

  “Very funny! Okay, we’ll see you there.”

  “Stay sober till then.”

  “Sure thing. If I’m going to get my ashes hauled I want to enjoy it. So long, and thanks, Pat.”

  MacQueen passed the phone to the bar steward and went in search of the chief steward. He was waiting in his tiny office, surrounded by menus, laundry sheets, and files. “Come in, sir,” he said, starting to rise. MacQueen waved him back and sat down, accepting a cigarette.

  “I just thought you might like to know,” commenced the chief, “that your petty officer has been querying some of my staff, and me, about you. He said it was a security exercise and swore them to secrecy.”

  MacQueen frowned. “What did he want to know?” He recalled Petty Officer Low’s passionate admission of loyalty.

  “Well, he asked about your relationship with Lieutenant Cossit, for one. And also about who you were talking to in the mess, and what you were talking about. Things like that.”

  “I appreciate the tipoff, Chief. He probably has some sort of security exercise in mind—he might want to catch me with my pants down as a joke or something.”

  “If you say so, sir. I just thought you’d like to know.”

  “Thanks again. I may turn the tables on him,” said MacQueen with a smile. “But right now I’m for some lunch.”

  Later at home MacQueen queried Espery and found that the petty officer had also been asking him questions, in a jocular sort of way.

  “In my opinion,” continued Espery, “the PO has plans of his own. I’m not questioning his loyalty to you—he talks of that all the time—but I think that you fit into his ideas in a different way than you fit into your own. People tend to idealize a person, but also bend them to their own ideas, which is not usually much like that person at all. Marcel Proust once commented about the impossibility of love. He said that we only love an ideal which doesn’t exist.”

  MacQueen, who had just bathed, was adjusting his necktie, always a bothersome business with stiff, detachable collars. He groaned, and Espery took over the task.

  “I don’t know much about Proust,” he commented, “
but I’ll be damned if I’ll become a puppet to our forceful PO. I’ll have words with him next week.”

  Espery helped him into the best jacket of his No. 4 uniform, brushed his shoulders, and stood back to admire him. MacQueen pulled on his French cuffs and put a handkerchief into his pocket, just under the few ribbons high on the left side of his chest. He put on his cap, picked up his gloves, and asked, “How’s that?”

  “You look just great! Have a good time and I’ll see you when I do. You’ll probably be late?”

  “Yes, probably—don’t wait up.”

  “I may go downtown for a beer with the boys or even a visit with my sister.”

  “Do what you wish, of course. Your watch isn’t on duty.”

  “Thanks. Good night.”

  MacQueen walked to the barracks through the gathering dusk. It was warm, and the leaves were just widening on the trees as the late summer spread itself across the island. He dismissed the disturbing thoughts from his mind and entered the back gate in a cheerful mood, returning the sentry’s salute with a greeting. Inside the wardroom, as he was checking his cap, he noted Seaton standing by the bar. Manie was sitting some distance away with a good-looking blond. He entered and waved.

  “Hiya, ol’ buddy,” called Freddie. “I got here before you! Some style, that car of yours.”

  “Hello, Freddie,” answered MacQueen and beckoned to Manie. The two girls rose and came to the bar.

  “Manie, this is the famous Freddie Seaton, denizen of the deep,” said MacQueen. Manie smiled and shook his hand.

  “This is Florence Whitby,” she gestured. Florence smiled and also shook hands.

  “I was praying that it was you two we were going out with,” said Freddie. “But I was having a hard time making up my mind which one I hoped for!”

  They all laughed. “You’ve drawn me, Freddie,” Florence said. “I hope you’re not disappointed.”

  “Yahoo!” said Freddie. “Let’s all have a drink.”

  The evening started in high gear. They had dinner, then a few more drinks until the car called for them at nine.

  As they were leaving, MacQueen walked over to Jimmy Cossit, who was leaning on the bar with a drink in his hand.

  “You’re not looking too cheerful, old son,” he said. “Why don’t you find a partner and join the party?”

  Jimmy looked up then glanced at the others waiting and looked back at MacQueen. “You go ahead and have some fun, Pat. I’m okay. Matter of fact, I might step out myself tonight.”

  “Oh? Where are you off to, you scamp?”

  “Might wander down to the City Club for a drink…you know, bang around for a bit…”

  “Take it easy, eh?”

  “Same to you, Pat. Have a good time.”

  “Thanks—wish you could come.”

  “No future, Pat. You know.”

  “See you tomorrow.”

  “Sure.”

  Rodney was delighted with the lighthearted company, and they drove through the army gates in a gale of laughter. The army barracks were a tattered replica of such establishments the world over in wartime, with grey hutments, dirt, and few trees. The exterior of the officer’s mess was no improvement, but once inside the hospitality made up for it.

  “’Ere’s th’ bleedin’ navy,” shouted a major in a parody of a British accent. “Gorblimey, and c’mon in!” It was crowded, smoky, and dim. The orchestra was playing loudly in another room, and the bar was a crowded counter cut into an adjoining wall. The Wrens headed for the ladies room (which was temporary), while Seaton and MacQueen headed for the bar to get some drinks. There was a relaxed and boisterous atmosphere that one rarely found in a naval mess.

  Soon they had carved themselves a small niche at the end of a table. All the familiar objects—favourite cigarettes, lighters, drinks—were laid out to make it a bit of home. They laughed and joked and danced, fought off intruders gaily, and concentrated on the crescendo rising within each one of them. Tomorrow was the end, and the girls were homebound.

  The dancing was crowded and rough, but it was an excuse to embrace and hold one another close. Manie surrendered herself to the beat of the music. There were no fine gowns here—only uniforms, but no one cared. One could lean close and catch a whiff of perfume behind a ringless ear, or softly brush the smooth skin of a cheek. It was a bawdy, noisy riot, but the nuances of the mating game are ever vigilant to promote the interests of love.

  Manie had to raise her voice, although Pat’s ear was only a half inch from her mouth. “I moved out of barracks today and checked into the hotel,” she said with no embellishment.

  MacQueen danced, fending her from drunken soldiers, and allowed this message to percolate into his brain. Good ol’ Manie, she thinks of everything. No one will know where I am, and all the revolutions in the world can go to hell. Their eyes met. He smiled. “Good girl, but don’t you think you’ll be lonely?”

  “MacQueen,” she answered with determination. “You’re going to be there too, if I have to drug you.”

  “We’ll take a taxi or get a lift. I don’t want anyone to know where I am just this once.” The music stopped and they all clapped. Everyone was sweating and the air was thick with smoke.

  “Let’s leave now,” she pleaded.

  “I’ll speak to Freddie. You get your hat and meet me by the door. There’ll be taxis outside, I think.”

  Freddie was leaning over Florence, whispering something that had her in fits of laughter. “Freddie, ol’ boy, we’re pulling out. My car will be here at midnight. You two take it and have fun.”

  “Where are you going, ol’ buddy?” asked Freddie, his eyes bloodshot from the smoke and rum. “Can’t leave the party now!”

  “You can manage without us, I’m sure,” said MacQueen. “I’ll get in touch with you.”

  “Okay, ol’ buddy. Great party, though.”

  Florence was still laughing as he left and threaded his way through the khaki uniforms. He opened the door and the fresh night air felt good. They walked under a row of bare, unflattering lights to the gate, where the sentry pointed to a couple of waiting taxis. They climbed into one. “The Newfoundland Hotel, driver.”

  “Aye, sir,” was the cheerful reply.

  Manie and MacQueen kissed. “God, MacQueen, you’re a hard man to capture,” she murmured with tears in her eyes.

  The solitary figure at the main desk ignored them as they made directly for the elevator. In the room, Manie turned on the desk lamp, gestured to a bottle of Bacardi rum and some mix on the bureau, and went into the bathroom to repair her makeup. “We’ll have to do without ice,” she called through the door. MacQueen poured two drinks, took a sip, and sat down to wait.

  She reappeared in a long housecoat and MacQueen rose. Her perfume filled his nostrils as she approached him. They kissed again, slowly. “Take off your jacket, Pat,” she murmured. She lay on the bed and he sat beside her, both holding their drinks. Neither spoke for some time.

  “Take off your shoes, Pat,” she encouraged. “And lie here beside me.” Obediently, he did as he was told. She leaned on an elbow and looked at him.

  “Hi, handsome.”

  He grinned. She leaned towards him, and they kissed once more. MacQueen felt the tension flowing from him and being replaced by a more urgent demand. She moaned slightly, and he moved towards her. She pushed him back and sat up.

  “Hell,” she said, “let’s take these clothes off.”

  He got up, wrestled with his tie and collar, and slipped out of his trousers. Tossing his shirt aside he bounced back on the bed. She stood before him naked, her fine white skin glowing in the lamplight, and her firm breasts arching upwards.

  “You’re cheating,” she said as she moved her hand to his shorts. He lifted his buttocks and she slipped them over his knees and onto the floor. “That’s better.”

  He lay on his back as she ran her hand down his stomach. “What a beauty,” she murmured. “Why have you kept it out of sight for so long?”


  This was too much for MacQueen. He rolled towards her, kissing her neck. “Take it easy, m’boy,” she whispered, but he was too inflamed to play her quiet games.

  85

  The following morning, MacQueen pulled the curtain and looked out onto a leaden sky. The green roofs of the Naval Headquarters were directly below, and he could see the idle sentry in his duffle coat standing by the entrance. Sunday was a boring day for such a job, but security was a round-the-clock business.

  “Will my flight be delayed? I hope,” said Manie from the bathroom.

  “I think not,” answered MacQueen, lifting her bags and placing them by the door.

  She came towards him and they embraced. “You need a shave, m’lad,” she commented.

  “Quiet or I’ll scratch you with a whisker-rub.” They kissed.

  “Oh, Pat,” she said softly, “I don’t want to go feminine on you, but you have my address in Toronto. Please don’t let me down too hard.” He kissed her again gently. “You might have a little Jew boy out of all this,” she murmured. “What would your father say to that?”

  “I’ll bet your folks would have more complaints than mine.” He chuckled. “We’d better hurry up. I’ll call for a boy to get your things.”

  At the main desk, he stood aside, quietly smoking as she checked out. Suddenly he saw Mary coming towards him across the lobby. She stood in front of him with eyes ablaze, ignoring Manie and the page boy.

  “You are a rotter!” she said quietly through clenched teeth. “A real rotter, and I don’t want to see you again, nor do I want you helping my country.”

  “Mary!” he exclaimed. “Let me exp—”

  She turned on her heel and stormed to the main door. She pushed through it without looking back.

  “What was that pretty scene all about?” asked Manie.

  MacQueen felt a savage anger at the Newfoundland girl who had made him suddenly feel like such a worm.

  “She’s crazy,” he said. “How the hell did she know…”

  Manie looked at him and smiled faintly. “She’s in love with you, oaf! What have you been up to behind my back?”