by John Winton
“I hear you have a big motor race on Sunday, sir?”
“Indeed yes. The International Targa Mango da SanGuana. Rather a pretentious, pompous name I’ve always thought but the press like it. It looks so well on paper. Rolls off the tongue, too. You must all come as my guests, I won’t accept any refusal. My Chief of Police, though a very obtuse man in many ways, will arrange seats for you.”
“Thank you very much, sir!” cried the wardroom in chorus.
“A pleasure. I shall be there myself of course, for political reasons. But I’d just as soon not. The noise, and all those impossible people! Some of them seem to think that just because they can drive one of those beastly machines at more than a hundred miles an hour I should offer them my own bed and toothbrush! It’s too much. I had a go myself one year and some ill-mannered boor rammed into the back of me before I had gone three hundred yards, to say nothing of three hundred miles.”
“Can anyone drive then, sir?” Dangerous Dan asked. The Bodger looked suspicious; for a moment he thought he had recognized an undertone in Dangerous Dan’s voice which reminded him of the past.
“Of course,” said Aquila. “The race used to be open to all comers but the whole thing has grown so much that everyone except the big boys have been squeezed out. I’m told the race is now as important as Le Mans or the Mille Miglia, whatever they may be. There was a rather trying argument one year because the slower drivers were supposed to be getting in the way of the faster ones. I couldn’t understand what they were arguing about myself. The whole thing seemed equally fraught with peril to me. Anyhow, I stopped it. But there’s no reason why I shouldn’t start it again. After all, I am President. It’s my race. Why,” Aquila said, draining his glass, “do you want a drive?”
“Would I?” Driving in a motor race of such magnitude would be, in Dangerous Dan’s eyes, second only to opening for England in the Lords Test.
“How’s your glass, sir?” Derek said.
“My dear hospitable Derek. . . .” Aquila relinquished his glass.
“Really Monterruez,” protested the British Consul. “You’re not seriously suggesting. . .
“Consul,” said Aquila solemnly. He had had just enough alcohol to make him argumentative. “You are forgetting that our host, Commander Badger here, received the Freedom of Cajalcocamara for his valiant part in my revolution. To a Freeman of Cajalcocomara, all things are possible! How about it, Bodger?”
The Bodger caught the British Consul’s eye.
“No really, Beaky, it’s very kind of you but I’m afraid I must refuse.”
“I’m disappointed in you, Bodger.”
The shape of the Second Coxswain loomed in the passageway.
“Beaufortshire just entering harbour, sir.”
“Dear God, that dreadful man,” Aquila said wearily. “He visited me last year and bored me almost into an asylum. Do you know that sensation as though someone were drilling steadily into the top of your head? That describes it exactly. He reminds me sometimes of Chief
of Police. He has the same inability to think of more than one thing at a time.”
“Who’s that?”
“Commodore Richard Gilpin.”
“Is he here?” said The Bodger hoarsely.
“He’s Commodore Amazon and River Plate and how’s your father. But I must go. Let him call on us. Come on Fruity,” Aquila nudged the British Consul, “down with that one. We must be off.”
As he stepped out into the passageway, Aquila collided with an agitated Petty Officer Telegraphist.
“Signal from Beaufortshire sir: You are in my berth I”
“Nonsense,” said Aquila sharply. “A Freeman of Cajalcocamara can berth anywhere he likes. Just you send him this message. . . .”
“That’s all right, Beaky,” The Bodger intervened hastily. “We’ve got to shift berth anyway. He’s going to give us some fuel.”
“Oh, very well.”
Aquila marched across the gangway to his little car, pushed the British Consul into the passenger’s seat, and prepared to drive off. He appeared to have some difficulty in finding the starter but at last the engine fired, the car backed and filled for a time, and then moved off in low gear.
Meanwhile, The Bodger was manoeuvring Seahorse away from the jetty and out of Beaufortshire’s way. He was only just in time. Beaufortshire’s bows slid in behind Seahorse’s stern as The Bodger backed out.
“What a rude man,” said The Bodger quietly.
Seahorse lay off while Beaufortshire secured in a flurry of bugle calls, band music and arms drill.
“Beaufortshire’s flashing us, sir.”
“So I see. What’s he saying, Signalman?”
“You--May--Salute--My--Flag--At--Noon, sir.”
The Bodger blinked. “Has he gone mad? What does he think I’m running here, a Royal Naval Barracks?”
“It’s five minutes to twelve now, sir.”
“I know.”
The Bodger had already been nettled by Beaufortshire’s signals. He was well aware that his own ship, with rusty sides and gaps in the casing where plates had been torn bodily away by the sea, compared poorly with Beaufort-shire’s spotless paintwork. He had been goaded almost beyond endurance by Beaufortshire’s white uniforms and bugle calls, a display of ceremonial which he had hoped to avoid for his own ship’s company who were weary after a long sea passage. But the order to fire a gun salute was too much. The last bond of restraint snapped in The Bodger’s mind.
“How many guns does a Commodore get?”
“Eleven, sir,” said Wilfred.
“Pass the message to the Torpedo Officer to go up to the fore ends and fire eleven white smoke candles from the forrard underwater gun! At the double! “
On the stroke of noon, the first canister curved into the air and dropped into the harbour. A massive plume of white smoke billowed from it. The Torpedo Instructor stood in the fore ends, taking his time from Rusty, and chanting: “If I wasn’t a T.I., I wouldn’t be here. . . .” When the salute was finished, Cajalcocamara harbour was enveloped in a dense smoke cloud and a foul smell of carbide.
“From Beaufortshire, sir: Are you on fire?”
“Make to Beaufortshire: Only with enthusiasm. Intend coming alongside you now.”
Seahorse felt her way cautiously alongside Beaufortshire, The Bodger sounding the fog-siren in a most ostentatious manner.
Seahorse’s officers were invited to take lunch in Beaufortshire. The meeting between the two wardrooms did not prosper. Beaufortshire had a social wardroom. As a mess, they were the last remaining stanchions of a way of life which vanished from the Royal Navy on September 3rd, 1939. They had a reputation as the most ferocious pride of social lions on either side of South America. The Amazon & River Plate Station might have been designed for their benefit. They rarely met another warship and bore the whole weight of the Navy’s official entertaining on both sides of the continent, a burden under which any other wardroom would have collapsed. Beaufortshire’s Navigating Officer explained the rigours of the commission to Gavin.
“Didn’t get any sleep for three nights running in Rio. And B.A. was beyond a joke. The races were on and people literally queued up to take us out, old boy. We were almost glad to get back to sea for a rest. I expect you find the same?”
“Not exactly.”
“Where have you just come from?”
“Portsmouth.”
“Take you long?”
“Forty-one days.”
Dagwood and Rusty were being entertained by the Captain of Royal Marines.
“I expect the first things you chaps’ll want is a bath, eh? Wash some of the smell off. Pretty smelly things, submarines, I’m told, eh?”
“Oh not at all,” said Dagwood. “All submarines have baths let into the deck. Black marble ones.”
“You’re pulling my leg! Black marble! What’s that for?”
“Night vision,” Dagwood said seriously.
“Great Scott! I never thoug
ht of that! I suppose you have to worry about that sort of thing in submarines, eh?”
“I should say so. Their Lordships are always telling us we must take more care over our sailors’ health. We get vitamin tablets, extra orange juice, sun-ray lamps, what else, Rusty?”
“Masseur,” said Rusty, right on cue.
“Oh yes. Masseurs. And pornography.”
“Pornography!”
“Oh yes, specially issued to submarines,” Dagwood looked carefully at the Captain of Royal Marines. Reassured, he went on. “They come in plain wrappers as a special supplement to the Advancement Regulations. People work up quite a frustration in submarines, you know. It’s all that sea time.”
“I can understand that! Have another drink, eh?”
“Thank you,” said the frustrated Dagwood. “I will.”
Derek was conducting the ritual negotiations between Engineer Officers concerning matters of fuel, lubricating oil and technical assistance. Beaufortshire’s Engineer Officer was a fat florid Lieutenant-Commander with a hearty laugh and a firm disinclination to be troubled by details. “How much fuel can you let us have, sir?”
“See my Chief Stoker. He’ll fix you up.”
“Is it Admiralty fuel?”
“Haven’t the faintest idea, dear old chap! Shouldn’t think so, for a moment. A little black man came on board somewhere along the coast, forget where it was now, and flogged us some.”
“But how about water content and all that?”
“Haven’t the faintest idea. I expect my Chief Stoker puts a line down and if he catches a fish he knows there’s water about, ha ha!”
“Yes,” said Derek.
Wilfred was also conducting a tribal pow-wow with Beaufortshire’s First Lieutenant on such esoteric matters as showers for the ship’s company, canteen opening hours, fresh bread, and dress for libertymen. He was finding the going as hard as Derek.
“How about mail, sir? Will your postman collect ours with yours?”
“Tell you what. Why don’t you ask your Coxswain to see my Coxswain and let them sort it out for themselves? Do you shoot? We got some very good duck at Recife. We might have a day here, if you’re interested.”
“I’m afraid I haven’t done any for a long time.”
“How about you, sir?” Beaufortshire’s First Lieutenant turned on Dangerous Dan who was staring, with barefaced horror, at a coloured print of the M.F.H. of the West Rutland Hunt of 1843 which was hanging above the wardroom fireplace.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said, do you shoot?”
“All our shoots are let.”
The First Lieutenant registered immediate interest.
“I didn’t catch your name, sir. . . .?”
“Sudbury-Dunne. S.U.D.B. . . .”
“Ah, your mother was a Pye-Gillespie before she married, wasn’t she?”
“Correct.”
“I believe I had a day at your place once.”
“I doubt it. Unless you know the Prime Minister well? Perhaps you do.”
In the Commodore’s day-cabin, The Bodger himself was having as sticky a time as his wardroom.
“Good to see you again, Badger,” Richard Gilpin was saying, coldly.
The Bodger, sitting on the edge of his chair nursing a glass of South African sherry, permitted himself a noncommittal grunt.
“We last met when you were my Number One in Carousel, is that right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Fine ship. Fine ship. Fine wardroom. Fine ship’s company.”
“Yes, sir.”
Inwardly, The Bodger marvelled at the way Richard Gilpin could contrive to look more like a naval officer than it seemed possible, or permissible, a naval officer should. Standing there by the fender, pouring himself a glass of sherry, his white uniform contrasting pleasantly with his lean tanned face, framed between the portrait of Nelson and the photograph of Admiralty Arch, Richard Gilpin might have been posing for a gin advertisement.
“I noticed several of your ship’s company needed haircuts this morning, Badger.”
“They’ve been at sea a month, sir.”
“Yes.” Richard Gilpin took a seamanlike sip at his sherry. “What was all that smoke this morning as we came in?”
“We had a little trouble with the forrard underwater gun, sir.”
“Yes, I suppose we must make allowances for the . . .” Richard Gilpin paused, “. . . illegitimate branches of the service.”
When The Bodger reached the safety of Seahorse’s wardroom again, he said: “Mid. Go ashore now. Find Aquila Monterruez. Tell him, from me, I would be delighted to accept his offer to drive in his motor race! “
The wardroom gave a concerted cheer. Dangerous Dan looked like a pilgrim granted a glimpse of Mecca.
“By the way, sir,” said Wilfred. “I’m afraid we’ve been asked to shift berth forrard of Beaufortshire as soon as we’ve completed fuelling.”
“Whatever for?”
The Midshipman went pink. “It was my fault, sir. As we were coming into harbour this morning, Leading Seaman Gorbles said what a good idea it would be to show our films on the upper deck against Beaufort shire’s ship’s side, sir. So I’m afraid I jokingly asked their First Lieutenant if he would mind painting a white square on their side to give us a better picture. . .”
“That does it! Mid, you can tell Aquila Monterruez that Seahorse will be entering a team for the International Targa Mango da SanGuana! Number One!”
“Sir!”
“Detail off a ship’s motor racing team!”
“Aye aye, sir! “
Snorting with fury, The Bodger retired to his cabin with a bottle of whisky and a copy of the Highway Code.
13
The news that H.M.S. Seahorse was entering an equipe for the Targa Mango was received by the British community in Cajalcocamara with astonishment and delight. Once they had assured themselves that the news was genuine, the British community rallied round. Mr MacTavish, the general manager of SanGuanOil, promised to supply the team’s petrol and oil; Mr Macintosh, executive head of SanGuana Motors (South America) Ltd promised tyres, sparking plugs and accessories; while the Anglican Church Ladies’ Scooter Club provided crash helmets for the whole team.
The problem of cars proved to be no problem at all. The British community, except the British Consul, fell over themselves to lend their cars until Scuderia Seahorse (as they were christened by the SanGuana motoring press) promised to be, if not the most practised, at least the most varied, team in the race.
The British Consul was sternly against the project from the start but when he saw the response from the rest of the British community he felt obliged to show the way. The Bodger was deeply moved when the British Consul, Aaron-like, offered his own pearl-grey Armstrong-Siddeley. It was an imposing model, with a bonnet as high as a barn roof and doors which shut with a massive clang like the closing of a bank vault.
“Look after the old girl, won’t you?” the British Consul said, wiping an unmanly tear from his eye.
The Bodger wrung the British Consul’s hand wordlessly, recognizing the magnificence of the gesture.
The planter who turned over his swamp-stained Land Rover to Gotobed and the Chef had a more earthy approach.
“I’ve filled the tank with petrol and the back with beer. All you’ve got to do now is get going and keep going. If you do that, you’re sure to get a place. Only one in ten finish this race anyway.”
Mr MacLean, the managing director of the First National Bank of SanGuana and himself an experienced rally-driver, lent Wilfred and Derek his Sunbeam.
The car was a green saloon with the competent look of all veteran rally cars, being fitted with white-wall tyres, sunvisor, three spotlights, a row of motoring club badges and a large spade strapped to the boot.
On the morning of the race, The Bodger and his co-driver Dangerous Dan went down to have a look at the opposition. They could hear the noise from the square a mile away and if they
had needed any convincing of the importance of the Targa Mango, the sight of the square itself provided it. The whole carnival of the international motor racing scene had been set up in the city of Cajalcocamara. Overhead banners advertised tyres, sparking plugs and brake linings. Girls in tight trousers and sun-glasses, shoe-shine boys, lottery ticket sellers, tourists wearing coloured shirts and carrying cameras, short fat men in light tropical suits smoking cigars, and SanGuana policemen in khaki tunics and puttees paraded the square and inspected the cars. The cars were spaced out at intervals along the square and were surrounded by chattering groups of men in overalls, photographers and impatient men with badges in their buttonholes.
The Bodger and Dangerous Dan stopped by one gleaming red car. The engine was warming up with all the authority of high octane fuel, dual-choke carburettors, a trifurcated manifold, a dynamically-balanced crankshaft and twin overhead highlift camshafts. The driver, a dedicated-looking man called Danny Auber, was sitting in the driver’s seat, nodding and holding up his thumb.
“Nice drop of motor car! “ Dangerous Dan shouted.
The engine noise dropped. The Bodger kicked one of the superb high-hysteresis racing tyres. “Cheap modern tin-ware,” he said.
Danny Auber, triple winner of the Nurburgring 1000 Kilometre, hoisted himself out of the bucket seat and approached them. He had heard all about The Bodger and his equipe.
“Do you mind? You may think this is frightfully funny. We don’t. You see, we work here.”
The Bodger waved his hands deprecatingly. “But my dear chap. Please don’t mind us.”
Nonetheless, The Bodger was depressed by the incident. He felt like the captain of a visiting village cricket team who has just arrived at the ground to find his side matched against the Australians.
“Which is just about what we are,” said The Bodger despondently.
The race was timed to start at noon but the first car away, Gotobed’s Land Rover, mounted the starting ramp at eleven o’clock. This early start, unprecedented in the history of the race, was the outcome of a bitter argument between Aquila and the race officials. The race officials had protested vigorously against Scuderia Seahorse’s entry.
