by John Winton
‘Where do you live, Smith?’ he asked.
‘Winchester, sir.’
‘Winchester? That’s a nice little town. I used to know one or two very good pubs there. The police are very considerate too, I remember. What are you going to do with yourself in the service, Smith? What are you going to specialise in?’
‘I thought of being a pilot, sir.’
‘Why?’
‘Oh, it’s what I’d like to do, sir. My family are all against it, of course.’
‘Why do you say “of course”?’
‘They’re Plymouth Brethren, sir. They’re not really very happy about me being a naval officer at all. They believe in peace or something. They think I’m bound to get killed.’
‘You mustn’t believe all you hear about pilots, Smith, in fact you mustn’t believe all I say about them. A chum of mine is married, has three children and not a drop of insurance. He daren’t get insured now. He’s superstitious. Perhaps that doesn’t quite illustrate what I meant to say, but he’s training pilots at the moment and he told me that when a new course comes in he can tell in a few days which are those that are going to be good pilots. He says he can tell which are going to kill themselves too, by their attitude. I think you’ll make a very good pilot, Smith. As long as you don’t take life too seriously.’
‘I don’t think I do that, sir, really?’
‘Perhaps not. The people I’ve known in the Navy who seem to have enjoyed life most and who have been promoted have all seemed to treat the Navy as a huge joke.’
‘It’s rather hard to split your sides in Barsetshire, sir.’
‘Don’t I know it! You wait until you’re a Cadet Training Officer, Smith, and you’ll wish you had as much to laugh at as a cadet. You’ll find that your real struggle will come when you’ve finished your training, believe me.’
In the evening Michael and Paul put on jerseys and walked along the beach. They walked barefooted close to the sea on the smooth wet sand where an occasional further wave washed inwards. Ahead of them the red ball of the sun was setting in layers of orange and yellow cloud. The sky showed clear between the clouds in pure blue. The clouds mounted overhead and thinned in their path, from piled masses to trails of vapour. When the sun dropped through the clouds to the sea it lit the sky in a last burst of green incandescence. The sand changed swiftly from white to yellow and through the spectrum to blue. The shadows of the palm trees crept out and swallowed up the last of the light. There was no twilight, but a withdrawal of the sun’s light over the horizon and darkness.
Michael and Paul walked to the end of the beach where a group of rocks jutted into the sea, and turned back. The solitude of the beach and the majesty of the sunset which they had both witnessed in silence had given them a sense of companionship.
‘I suppose the rest of the Navy’s not going to be like this, is it Mike?’ Paul said. ‘Because if it is, then it’s me for the shore by the first boat. I’m only putting up with this in the hope of something better to come.’
‘It’s bound to be. They can’t keep this pace up all the time.’
‘I’ll bet they have a good try.’
‘No, this is just the start. The breaking-in process.’
‘All right, I’m broken in. Now where do we go?’
As they came near the camp, they heard The Bodger’s voice.
‘Ginger, if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times rum punch must be hot. We must prepare a draught for the gods, not mouth wash for spavined mules!’
When The Bodger’s punch was ready, the cadets sat huddled in blankets round the fire, which had been built up into a roaring pyramid, with their mugs ready. Looking round him, Michael was oddly reminded of many Boy Scout camp-fires except that here there was an element of unexpectedness, almost of preposterousness; Boy Scouts were expected to gather round camp-fires, naval officers were not. There was a touch of fantasy but also a kind of remote logic in the sight of The Bodger, Ginger, Evans the Slide Rule, the Navigating Officer and the cadets, all in banyan rig.
After The Bodger’s toast, to the next banyan, they sang songs. The Bodger sang the verses, Evans the Slide Rule sang the harmonies, and the cadets sang the choruses. The Bodger had an extensive repertoire which ranged from the traditional to the profane and included ‘The Harlot of Jerusalem’ which they sang in memory of Mr Froud.
The fire was allowed to die out. Those cadets who had brought their hammocks slung them between palm trees and the rest laid out their blankets on the sand. As he lay and looked up at the stars shining through the leaves where Spink had shaken down the coconuts, Michael thought that he had never been so happy in the whole of his time in the Training Cruiser.
An hour later, when even the last had settled his blankets and snuggled in between them, the camp was still and quiet except for the faint sound of an engine far away along the beach.
The beat of the engine grew louder and nearer. It was an inappropriate sound, as out of place on that beach as the sound of a pneumatic drill in the high Himalayas. Some of the cadets turned over and tried to shut it out of their ears. When the noise was almost opposite the camp it was amplified by voices calling. A light shone over the sea. The Bodger got up and walked down to the water’s edge. He stared out over the sea.
‘Ahoy there!’ he shouted. ‘Who’s there?’
The Navigating Officer left his sleeping bag and joined The Bodger.
‘What’s going on, Bodger?’
‘I don’t know. There’s someone out there in a motor-boat. Sounds as though he’s looking for someone.’
‘I wonder if he’s looking for us?’ A sudden joy entered the Navigating Officer’s voice.
‘I don’t think so. What would they want us for at this time of night?’
‘Ahoy there!’ the Navigating Officer called. ‘What are you looking for?’
A beam of light stabbed out from the boat, searched the beach and rested on The Bodger and the Navigating Officer.
‘Is that Lieutenant Commander Badger?’ asked a voice from the darkness.
‘They are looking for us!’ cried the Navigating Officer exultantly.
The Bodger cupped his hands. ‘Lieutenant Commander Badger speaking. What’s the trouble?’
‘From the Captain, sir, you are to return to the ship at once. There’s been a revolution in Central America, sir, and the ship has been ordered to proceed there at once. If you’ll man your boat, sir, I’ll give you a tow.’
Every word fell like blessed manna upon the Navigating Officer’s ears. But The Bodger shook his fist.
‘Name of a name! Why can’t these bloody wogs have their revolutions at a civilised hour like everybody else? They can’t have a revolution now! It’s the middle of the night!’
‘Saved!’ breathed the Navigating Officer. ‘Saved at the eleventh hour, by George! Who’d have thought it? Saved by a lot of bloody wogs! Bless you, fuzzy-wuzzies, every one!’
Some of the cadets by the fire sat up and stared at The Bodger.
‘What are The Bodger and Pilot carrying on about?’
‘Something about a revolution in Central America.’
‘Why on earth do they come and tell us about it?’
‘Specially at this time of night.’
‘Pilot looks as pleased as punch about something. He’s jumping up and down like a mad thing.’
‘Perhaps he wants to wear a tin helmet. Anyway, let’s for Christ’s sake get some sleep. That’s what we came for, remember?’
‘Will you hurry please, sir?’ said the voice from the boat. ‘I’ve got two other banyans to pick up. I’m going round to the other side of the island to pick up the Foretop and I’ll be back in about twenty minutes.’
‘Very good,’ The Bodger said. ‘Blast all wogs!’ he said under his breath. He walked back to the fire and looked at the sleeping figures.
‘All right, everybody, time to get up. I’m sorry but there’s been a revolution somewhere and the ship is sailing. We’ve g
ot twenty minutes so chop chop. Wakey, wakey, everybody.’
The banyan parties returned to the ship. The ship had already raised steam, the Chief G.I. had detailed the sea watches, and the cranes were ready to hoist the boats. At midnight, by the glare of flood light, with officers and cadets still in banyan rig, Barsetshire sailed to quell a revolution in Central America.
14
As soon as the banyan parties had returned, the Captain rang down revolutions for thirty knots. But, as Commander (E) remarked to the Senior Engineer, it was one thing to ring down for thirty knots and quite another to achieve them. In her day Barsetshire had been one of the fastest ships in the Navy. Like all her class, she was comfortable, economical, and capable of thirty knots. A quarter of a century later, her spirit was willing but her engines were old.
George Dewberry was understudying the Engineer Officer of the Watch when Barsetshire put to sea. The Engineer Officer of the Watch was Mr Pilgrim, a withered Branch Officer who had been steaming ships since the days of coal and triple-expansion steam engines. He had the engineer’s mistrust of anything new. He had remarked bitterly on the coming of the steam turbine, prophesying that the Admiralty had overstepped themselves this time. He had seen diesels as a short-lived experiment. The possibility of a ship powered by a gas turbine had made him bombinate on the crass stupidity of the Admiralty, who tried to run before they could walk. The conception of a ship driven by an atomic pile Mr Pilgrim placed on the level of science fiction, all very well for schoolboys to read about, but unworthy of the consideration of practical men. This was the man in charge of Barsetshire’s main engines when the Captain rang down for all the speed he could get,
Mr Pilgrim watched the revolution counters ring on and on, demanding speeds at which Barsetshire only attempted to travel in grave emergency, and past them into the realms of fantasy where the counters moved stiffly through infrequent use, to a final unbelievable speed where the counters jammed. They could go no further. Their appealing immobility suggested that, had they been able, they would have continued, past the world water speed record, through the sound barrier, and out into interstellar velocities greater than human being had ever before achieved,
‘Well,’ Mr Pilgrim said, glaring at the jammed counters, ‘they can ring them on all right. But can we give them them? Eh? What do you say, eh, you boy?’ He prodded George Dewberry. ‘Eh Boy?’
‘We can try, sir,’ said George Dewberry. It was the first time he had ever been down into Barsetshire’s engine room and he had no idea whether Barsetshire could achieve the revolutions or not.
Mr Pilgrim grunted and went across the plates to stand behind the E.R.A. on the throttle. The E.R.A. was slowly opening his throttle. Steam screamed through the pipes. The red pointer on the revolutions dial circled faster and faster, and the numbers in the small cage flicked past each other as fast as the eye could read them. Temperature gauges crept up with the revolutions. The engine room grew perceptibly hotter. The Chief E.R.A. in charge of the engine room walked round to inspect his thermometers. George Dewberry could see him appearing and disappearing behind pipes and down ladders, his expression becoming more anxious as he went round.
A harsh crackling voice came over the broadcast. The words were unintelligible to George Dewberry but Mr Pilgrim heard them and looked significantly at the Chief E.R.A. Mr Pilgrim leaned over and shouted.
‘That was the chief stoker in the boiler room! Says he’s got all his sprayers on all boilers! Can’t put any more on! He’ll have to start burning his socks now!’
George Dewberry nodded. Mr Pilgrim gestured contemptuously at the revolution counters.
‘They can stuff those! They won’t get any more!’
The Senior Engineer came down the ladder into the engine room. He conferred with Mr Pilgrim. George Dewberry could see Mr Pilgrim pointing to gauges and shouting in the Senior’s ear. The Senior inclined his head and looked grave. George Dewberry felt alarmed.
The broadcast crackled again but this time with an urgent, clamouring note. George Dewberry clutched the hand rail in front of him and an icy wave of panic shuddered down his spine. It’s happened after all, he thought, something terrible has happened. The Chief Stoker’s voice could just be heard above the devouring roar of the boiler room fans, sounding like the voice of a doomed man shouting that the boiler was about to burst. He had obviously put too many sprayers on. George Dewberry shut his eyes and waited dumbly for the explosion.
The moments passed and nothing happened. George Dewberry opened his eyes again.
‘What was that?’ he asked Mr Pilgrim.
‘Chief wanted to know what’s happened to the limers issue! Should have been sent across half an hour ago!’
While the ship raced westwards through the starlit Caribbean night, the officers and Ship’s Company made their preparations for quelling a revolution. The Gunnery Officer, Mr Piles and the Gunner’s party laid out rifles, lanchester carbines, sten guns, pistols, steel helmets and webbing equipment. The Communications Branch tested portable radio transmitters and signalling lamps and made up sets of signalling flags. The ship’s bakery worked all night baking loaves. The P.M.O. and the Sick Bay staff filled haversacks with bandages, splints and morphia tablets. By breakfast time the ship was ready and it was only then that a thought struck The Bodger.
‘Where the hell are we going, incidentally?’ he asked.
The Gunnery Officer looked up from his grapefruit.
‘Place called SanGuana Annuncion. It was on the news last night.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Next door to British Honduras. I looked it up on the map. It’s a Crown Protectorate.’
‘Then what are they rebelling for?’
‘God knows, it’s the season for it, I suppose. It’s the national sport in this neck of the woods. The Captain’s going to tell us all about it at nine o’clock.’
The Captain spoke to the ship over the ship’s broadcasting system. The Captain abhorred public speaking and avoided it if he could; it was one of his favourite sayings that a Captain should address his Ship’s Company on commissioning and on going to war and at no other time.
‘As you must all know by now,’ he said, ‘we are on our way to sort out a bit of unpleasantness in a place called SanGuana Annuncion. I’ve never heard of it myself but I’m told on good authority that it’s important. It’s a Protectorate of the Crown, which means that to a certain extent we’re responsible for what goes on. This place has only a short history. It was virgin jungle until after the first World War when they found oil and minerals and all sorts of valuable things there. The capital, a place called Cajalcocamara, where we’re going now, is something of an international city, something like Tangier. They’re always having revolutions in these parts so I don’t suppose this one will be up to much. I expect we’ll find the whole thing settled and they’re all asleep when we get there. If that’s so we can all go away and get on with our cruise. That’s all.’
Afterwards, the Captain addressed all officers in the wardroom.
‘For your benefit, gentlemen, I’m going to amplify a little of what I told the sailors. This country we’re going to has been almost completely developed and opened up by people from outside. The Americans have a strong interest in the oil, the Swiss have got several banks there, several mining firms and fruit shippers have factories and property in the country, and there’s a thriving brothel area. They’re moderately civilised now, in fact. I’m told that Gieves have got a branch in Cajalcocamara. Foreigners have put a lot of money into the place and they more or less say what goes on. The hereditary ruler, a man called Dominquin Monterruez, is not much more than a picturesque figurehead. Dominquin claims to be descended from the Sun God, but from what the Foreign Office say he seems to be little more than a Red Indian, but he did send his son, Aquila, to England for his education. And that’s the cause of the trouble. Aquila seems to have got in with a very bad set at Oxford and he now knows something about democracy and, acc
ording to the Foreign Office handout, he can play the guitar. When he got back to SanGuana a year ago, Aquila immediately started to pester the old man to let San-Guanos have more say in the government of the place. I suppose that’s reasonable, but it put the British Consul there in an embarrassing position because it was he who suggested sending Aquila to England. Yesterday afternoon, during the siesta, Aquila and his party took over Radio SanGuana, blockaded all roads from the capital, picketed the railway station and closed the harbour. They also locked Dominquin and the British Consul up in the Consulate. This sounds very amusing to us but H.M. Government take a very serious view of it because, here I’m quoting, “Any continued instability in the political situation in SanGuana Annuncion will further the ends of undesirable elements in Central and South America.” What that means exactly I can’t tell you, gentlemen, but there it is. Commander, I suggest that you get the ship’s company together this forenoon and explain the details a bit more fully about landing parties and so on. That’s all I have to say, gentlemen.’
Barsetshire expected to arrive off Cajalcocamara in the late afternoon. In the forenoon, the Ship’s Company mustered by divisions for the issue of small arms, webbing equipment, rations, and instructions on the technique of dealing with street riots. After the issue, the Ship’s Company closed aft for an address by the Commander.
The Commander stood up on the after screen where everybody could see him. He was conscious of a repressed excitement in the mass of faces below him.
‘I’ve called you aft,’ he began, ‘to give you an idea of our organisation for this afternoon and to let you get some picture of the problems you’re likely to have to face when or if, you get ashore. I say “if” because these sort of affairs look a lot more exciting than they actually turn out to be. They’re often very disappointing, like following a woman up the street and then seeing her turn round. Remember that it is possible that some of you will be separated from the main body and may be surrounded by unfriendly, if not hostile, crowds. You will have to act on your own initiative and the ship will be judged by the actions of small groups just as much as large ones. You can have just as much effect on the situation, one way or the other, with a few of you as with a big platoon. So all listen carefully to what I have to say. You will all be in platoons by departments, using the same sub-divisions as for the regatta, that is to say the Communications Branch, if they are required, will land with the Band, and so on. The Royal Marine Detachment will provide the first landing party under the command of the Captain of Royal Marines. They will be supported by a special riot squad provided by the engine room and supply and secretariat branches. They will carry tear gas, and lanchester carbines, and will be under the command of the Gunnery Officer. That should be enough, but the remainder of the Ship’s Company will follow as required. The cadet platoons will provide reinforcements, under the command of Lieutenant Commander Badger. So much for the outline of the organisation. The Gunnery Officer will give you the details after I’ve finished. Now for the purpose of this landing, if we make a landing. The reason why we are going ashore.’
