The Elephant Rock slid by, peering down at us over the starboard rail. “Half-astern both.” Then to Stuart, “Steady as you go.”
She came out as sweet as if she’d been coming off a beach. “Half-ahead starboard.” The bows came slowly round as though the coastline were marching by. “Half-ahead both.” We steamed slowly past the Rocky Valley about a two cables’-length off shore, past the village of Trafalgar with its squat-towered church, past the light on the cliff-top and into Boscastle inlet.
Word of our coming had gone before us. Half the village was out to greet us, cheering and waving as the rusty hulk slid between the two arms of the old stone breakwater. We tied up alongside the hard. Old Garth was the first aboard. And there was a burly man with a cheery grin and mud-caked gaiters with him. “This is my friend Ezra Hislop, Mr. Cunningham,” Garth said. “He’s going to present me with five pound in the bar and you and Mr. McCrae must come along and help drink it.”
As we went down to the pub I caught snatches of conversation—“I mind the first time I saw ’un. I thought I was dreaming” and “I saw ’un come in. I reckoned she’d break up in that cove”—and so on. Some had helped the crew off. Some had put them up for the night. Several had helped the captain to salvage things. The pub didn’t close its doors until near on four o’clock that afternoon and there can have been few sober fishermen in Boscastle by the time it did.
We spent all next day recovering our borrowed gear in Bossiney Cove and loading it into the barge which Garth towed round for us. The cove looked strange without the rusty hulk of the landing craft lodged precariously under the cliffs.
When we got back, Dugan approached us, cap in hand and smothered in oil. He had with him a short, powerfully built young fellow with a mop of unruly yellow hair. He was dressed in what had once been khaki overalls and he too looked as though he’d bathed in the sump of a diesel engine.
“I was thinking that now she’s off the rocks you’d be needing a crew like, sir,” Dugan said.
“Wait a minute,” put in Stuart. “We’re not staying in home waters. We’re going to the Mediterranean.”
“That’s okay with me, sir.” He grinned cheerfully through the mask of oil that smeared his face. “I ain’t got no ties as you might say. An’ there don’t seem no job for us around these parts. My mate here feels the same way.”
“What’s your name?” Stuart asked Dugan’s pal.
“Eric Boyd, sir.”
“You’re the boy that was in the R.A.S.C., aren’t you?” I asked him.
“Yes, sir. But I were in a Water Transport Company. I had charge of a schooner running cargoes between Corsica and Naples and up to Livorno for more than a year. And I was out with the boats when I was a boy.”
“Speak Italian?” Stuart asked.
“Pretty fair, sir. You had to on them schooners. There weren’t nobody but yourself and a bunch of Ityes.”
Stuart glanced at me. I gave a slight nod. “Right,” he said. “Come and see me in the morning and we’ll fix up details.”
After supper that night Stuart brought out the armoury that Dugan had found. There were three Mauser rifles with a box of a thousand rounds, all tracer, two boxes of grenades and four of those little Italian Berettas complete with holsters and a hundred rounds of ammunition apiece. The rust was only surface rust. He started on the pistols. “Mighty useful find of Dugan’s,” he said, and you could almost hear him purr.
Two months later I was to remember his words. At the time, however, I said, “There’s not a war on in the Med now.”
He looked at me with that slightly humorous lift of the eyebrows. “You’d be surprised,” he said. “Remember the arms that were filched from us in Egypt, North Africa and Italy. There are caches of weapons of every kind in practically every country in the Med. And we’re not all that popular in some areas where there wasn’t enough food. I won’t be going ashore without one of these little toys tucked away in my pocket.” And he tapped the pistol he was cleaning.
Whilst he worked at the weapons, we held a brief board meeting. Our salvage worries were over. We had a ship now that could move under her own steam—not a problematical hulk lying on the rocks. And our thoughts were concentrated on how to make the best use of her.
It was agreed there and then that I should run the ship. In matters of seamanship he would come under me as my Number One. But that he should fix cargoes. He’d been in a solicitor’s office before the war and he was confident that he could avoid the normal pitfalls into which a one-ship concern might fall. We agreed to do the trip out with the skeleton crew of four we already possessed—Dugan and Boyd to come in on a profit-sharing basis. The rest of the crew were to be recruited in Italy where labour would go where there was food. We would sail for Plymouth as soon as I was confident the craft could make it and whilst I supervised refitting he was to go to London and get in touch with some Italian contacts he had with a view to our investing in a suitable cargo.
Two days later we said good-bye to our friends in Boscastle. We made Plymouth in just over twenty-four hours. The sea was calm and the engines ran without a hitch. Behind us we trailed our borrowed barge with the tackle that had enabled us to become a going concern.
It was the end of the first phase.
CHAPTER FOUR
OUTWARD BOUND
IT WAS a big moment for me, coming in to Plymouth again in a landing craft. And this time I was part owner of it. It did not belong to the Government. As soon as we had berthed, we sought Slater out in his office.
“Ah” he said, as we were shown in by his writer, “I’ve been expecting you, Cunningham, for the past two days.”
I introduced Stuart to him. “How do you mean—you’ve been expecting me?” I asked.
For answer, he picked a newspaper up from his desk and handed it to me. It was the Western edition of a London daily and right across one of the inside pages the heading read: Two Men Lift Landing Craft Off Rocks—Amazing Story of Hulk Refloated. There was a picture of the ship on the rocks at the head of the cove and another of her steaming into Boscastle. There were pictures of Stuart and myself and a picture of a man in a slouch hat which seemed vaguely familiar. The story took the whole page and in the middle was the by-line—Bill Trevor. I recognised the man in the slouch hat then—his picture was captioned in heavy type: And I Helped Them Do It.
“So that’s what Bill does for a living,” I said, and handed the feature across to Stuart. I remembered his enthusiastic use of a Leica camera which he carried everywhere. The picture of us coming into Boscastle was probably taken from a tripper. There had been plenty of cameras clicking as we had berthed at the hard that morning.
“I’m glad to see he had the sense not to let on where you got the equipment from,” Slater said.
I nodded. I was wondering whether the Admiralty would try and prevent our sailing the ship and what effect this publicity would have on our next need—a cargo. “Well, what about this dinner?” I said. “They should be just about opening now.”
“Good,” he said. “Very good idea.” He drove us into town and we finished up at two in the morning on board a destroyer with eggs and bacon, washed down with rum.
The next day Stuart left for London, and Dugan, Boyd and I settled down to the job of refitting. It was a job that completely absorbed me. For a month nothing else meant anything to me. And I was as completely happy as I have ever been.
No dry dock was available so we decided to fix the damaged hull plates ourselves. This suited me, for I was determined that the refit should be thorough and at the same time that it should cost as little as possible. Slater gave me every assistance. He made me free of any equipment I needed, gave me old plates and stanchions, enabled me to scrounge all the things that cost a lot if purchased new and yet are piled, rusting, in any big Navy yard—and we weren’t worrying about getting second-hand stuff. All I had to buy were spares for the engines, paint and the like. He fitted me out with ropes, hawsers, an anchor, door chains
and many other things, taken from wrecks and ships that had been broken up. We even managed to get a loud-hailer.
We took the old crate out of the docks and beached her on the sands of the Sound. With winches and jacks we tipped her over on to her side and by the end of three days her hull was sound, the rudders had been straightened out and the damaged screw had been exchanged.
I made a great discovery during those three days—Boyd was no mean hand at engineering. He’d had a year as a mechanic in a garage before the war and for the first three years in the Army had been driving and serviceing transport. And then, of course, in the Water Transport Company he had been the engineer on board his schooner as well as the cargo supervisor.
And so, whilst Dugan worked steadily at the engines to get them absolutely as perfect as old engines that have seen much service and then been buried in sea and sand for a year can be, Boyd and I set to work to fix the superstructure.
Everything that was broken, bent or twisted we ripped off with an acetyline welder or axes. By the time we’d finished there was virtually nothing left of the deck-housing and bridge except the steel walls.
From that skeleton we began to build—new bridge supports were welded in, a new stack and mast rigged, a gyro compass installed, new steel ladders fitted. And then the bridge—we built that of steel plates and aft of the stack we erected a really roomy chart-house and wardroom that ran out on either side to include the wings of the bridge where the pom-poms had been. This wardroom was constructed of ferro-concrete, curved like an adobe aft to give the least possible resistance to a following sea that might sweep over the bridge. Stanchions were erected round the remainder of the bridge to carry a canvas awning to protect us from both rain and sun.
Soon after we had righted the boat and had started work on the superstructure, something happened which didn’t seem important at the time and yet was strangely linked with my fortunes.
I received a package from Bill Trevor. It contained letters addressed to us care of his paper. In his letter he apologised for not having told us that he was a newspaper man and intended to use us as copy and trusted that we were not offended by anything he had written in the article. “One or two of these letters, which I have been cad enough to open, are quite intriguing. Your pictures seem to have gone over big—you’ll find quite a number of girls have written asking to be included in your crew. Some have offered to put up money. And even better, some have included photographs. I like Judy—I’d sign her on as cook! And there’s a rather pathetic letter from a Mrs. Dupont. I have done a follow-up story on the spate of letters you are receiving whilst you struggle with your own refitting …”
That evening I read through them all. There were a hundred and twenty-four of them. I was astonished by the frankness of some, by the desire for adventure of others and by the general absence of any realisation of the cramped living conditions on board an L.C.T. And then I came to Mrs. Dupont’s letter:
26, Doughty Street,
London, W.C.I
5th July.
DEAR SIRS,
I understand from Mr. Trevor’s article that you will be sailing in the Mediterranean. You are both men who have seen something of the horror of war. And I think, therefore, you will understand and do me the favour I ask.
I am an Englishwoman. I married a Frenchman in 1920. I had met him when I was driving an ambulance in the last war. We had two children—a boy and then a girl. In 1940, when the breakthrough occurred, my husband sent Monique to his sister in Italy. A week later I heard that Pierre had been killed on the Meuse. Next day my husband was shot by a band of the Croix de Feu. I joined the stream of refugees to Bordeaux. And because I was English they took me off.
Since she left me in May, 1940, I have had no word of Monique. She was 16 when she went to Italy. Now she should be 22. But I don’t know even if she is still alive. It is horrible not knowing what has happened to her. My husband and my son—I know about them. Monique is all I have left of my life. The thought of her has kept me going through these long weary years.
I have worked to save enough to go to Italy. But recently I was ill and a typist’s savings soon disappear. I have never asked anybody to do this because I wanted to do it myself. But now I feel desperate and your pictures showed you warm-hearted, adventurous men who might be willing to do something for a stranger.
She went to Signora Marie Galliani, Via Santa Cecilia 17, Napoli. I have written and cabled since the war—the cable came back marked “Whereabouts unknow.” Attached to this letter you will find a photograph of Monique taken when she was fifteen. Please don’t lose it, for it is the only one I have of her. I enclose a stamped addressed envelope—if you cannot undertake this mission for me will you be kind enough to let me have the photograph back. I would come down to see you, but the truth is that I cannot afford the fare. Will you, therefore, please take the will for the deed and let this letter plead for me as though I were speaking to you myself.
I am sorry to burden you with a request that must come at a time when you have many practical matters to deal with. But you would be doing a great kindness to a woman who has only memories for company if you would find out what has happened to Monique.
Yours beseechingly,
Emily Dupont.
Pinned to the letter was a worn and faded photograph of a long-legged girl with an oval face and eyes and mouth that had a suggestion of laughter. I stared at it for some time, seated on the half-completed bridge as the slanting rays of the dying sun threw the shadow of the ship on the wet sands. I was thinking of the docks at Naples, of the narrow dirty streets below the Castello San Elmo, of Terracina, Cassino, Formia, and all the other towns where the rubble had been ground fine in the jaws of war. This photograph might be the likeness of a beautiful girl or the memory of a skeleton buried beneath a shattered building.
I wrote to Mrs. Dupont that night and told her that I would do what I could. Then I locked the letter and the photograph away in the little jewel case that contained Jenny’s trinkets.
Two days later Stuart returned, just as we were starting to mix the concrete for the wardroom. He was nervous and excited. “Well, how did you get on?” I asked. “Have you got a cargo?”
“Come into the wheelhouse,” he said. From his suitcase he pulled out two bottles of Scotch. “Get one of those uncorked,” he suggested, “whilst I get the glasses—and prepare yourself for a shock.”
“Well, what is it?” I asked, as he poured out two stiff drinks. I was feeling worried to the depths of my stomach. I realised then how much the ship had come to mean to me.
“I’ll tell you the worst first,” he said. “I’ve mortgaged the boat—£7,500. I should have wired you first. But I had a chance to purchase some Government transport and I didn’t want to miss it. At the same time I was able to get a lot of Bedford spares cheap, including tyres.”
“You mean,” I said, “we no longer own the boat.”
He nodded. “But look, David,” he said. “We’re out to trade, aren’t we? To start trading you must have money and the only capital asset we had was the boat. I know you were expecting me to arrange for a cargo—ourselves simply to earn money as carriers. But I saw a lot of Italians in London and they all told me the same thing—Italy was short of transport and of spares for the transport they had. At the end of the war they bought up large numbers of old Army lorries, mainly Dodges and Bedfords. Now they’re needing spares and tyres to keep them on the roads. When I heard that the Government was disposing of some W.D. transport I decided to act at once and get in first. I bought five quite good Bedfords and a quantity of spares. They’re garaged in a barn belonging to a friend of mine down on Romney Marsh and I thought of sending Boyd up to get them painted—they’re in good running order, but they don’t look up to much. Now I’m convinced that I can sell them to an Italian in London on a payment on delivery basis. He’ll also buy the spares. I reckon we’ll make about 100 per cent profit. The spares can be stowed under the trucks and I thought we�
��d load the trucks with cigarettes which are in very short supply in Italy. Now does that sound a good proposition? We’ve got to risk something if we’re going to establish ourselves. And I’ve got the export permits.”
I had to admit it sounded all right. His enthusiasm was, as always, infective. “What about payment?” I asked. “Will they pay in sterling?”
“No, in goods,” he said. “Their difficulty is foreign exchange. If they could purchase direct they would have done so themselves long ago. That’s why there is a big profit in the deal if we can barter for a cargo that we can sell. Now I thought of opening a wholesale and mail order business in London for wines and liqueurs. Vermouth, Marsala, Spumante, Grappa, Benedetto, Strega, Triple Sec, Anisette,—there’ll be some good stuff produced this season and cheap.” He shrugged his shoulders. “It’ll be slow,” he admitted. “But it’ll be profitable. Over the next twelve months I figure that we’ve got a good chance of making a profit of something over £10,000 and at the same time of establishing a sound business.”
“Sounds too good to be true,” I said.
“Well, do I go ahead?” he asked, “Or do you think of something better?”
“You go ahead,” I said. “If you’re prepared to take the risk, so am I.”
“Right,” he said. “Now this is what I propose to do. I’ve found a friend of mine who’s got a job he doesn’t like. He has a little money put by and we’ll take him into partnership on the wine side of the business, the basis being that he runs it, we supply him at cost plus carriage and we split the profit three ways. Incidentally, he’s already agreed to the idea and furthermore he is prepared to quit his job forthwith and start canvassing the big grocery stores for advance orders so that we’ve got an idea of how it’s likely to work in practice and what wines and liqueurs are preferred before we accept such a cargo in exchange for our lorries and spares.”
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