by The Rock
A whistle blew again, and Sergeant Farley intoned, "Blasting. All clear?"
"All dear."
Farley pressed the firing plunger. A series of cracks echoed sharply down the tunnel, followed by a short, heavy rumble. A cloud of gray dust and fumes hid the face. "Nineteen fired," a voice cried.
"Fuck!" Sergeant Farley said.
" 'Twas one of the easers missed, gaffer."
Chaddock lit a cigarette. Now they had to find the misfired detonator in the mass of fallen rubble and extract it and after it the actual charge.
"The detonator's in the top of the charge?" Hughes asked anxiously.
Chaddock said, "That's where we always put it."
"This is the sort of thing that makes six hundred cubic yards a week hard to keep up," the C.E. said.
"There'd be fewer delays if we had electric detonators," Chaddock said.
"We've asked for them."
A miner standing close by, dragging at a tiny stub of cigarette, said, "It's nothin' to do with the bloody charges, man. It's the ghost."
"Ghost?" the C.E. said cheerily. "What ghost?"
"There's a naked woman runs about with her mouth open," the miner said. "She's the one who fucks up the drillpoints and derails the tubs and snuffs out the fuses."
"Does she have a name?" the brigadier asked.
"Aye. The ghost of Thompson's Raise, we call her, 'cos that's where she was first saw. The officer had a dog with him, and suddenly the dog started whining and whimpering as though he'd seen ... a ghost. Since then that bloody woman's been seen in every raise and winze and drive in the Rock."
Chaddock said, "It's not a ghost holding us up. It's unnecessary delays. Spit and polish. Old-fashioned methods. Nondelivery of what we need. Look at these ventilator ducts. I put in a special urgent report in January, 1941. The air flow at three hundred feet from source was six hundred thirty cubic feet a minute with this stuff, and two thousand six hundred cubic feet a minute with rubberized canvas. How the hell can the men be expected to work without enough air?"
"Chaddock!" Major Hughes said warningly.
"No, no, I like an officer to speak his mind," the C.E. said. "I've got to go now. Walk back a little way with me, Chaddock."
They started down the tunnel. Chaddock kept talking, because he could not stop. He was aware that the brigadier was looking at him under the passing lights, rather than listening, though every now and then he murmured Yes, or No, or Quite. "One size rip bit only, one and a half inch diameter," Chaddock babbled. "No steel transport, use the drill sharpening shop only for reshanking the rip rods.... Hand drills, Holman SL 9 or something like, instead of the sledges ... compressors in banks, three point five gallons diesel oil per hour for the Ingersoll Rand ... drifters ... two fans in parallel, short Y junction..."
"Are you a regular?" the C.E. said. "I thought I only had three in Gib. Where were you at school?"
"Don!" Chaddock shouted. His hands were shaking violently, and he could not hold them still. "What the hell does it matter where I went to school? We're in the presence of Evil! ... That's the ghost of Thompson's Raise—Evil, Evil! And all you can do is ask where I went to school. And in the pub, about monkeys ... the ... the...."
The brigadier took his arm. Chaddock felt hot tears running down his cheek. "Been overdoing it a bit, eh?" the brigadier said. "Come along, old chap. Here, Fanshaw, give me a hand. There. Sit back."
He sat in the back of the staff car, his hands held tight between his knees. A green room. Two years, three months, twenty-one days. Tunneling all the time? Yes, sir. Tunneling Company? Of course. Airplanes roaring overhead continuously. Must be imaginary. One hundred and seventy-five feet, 7/8-inch riprod, climax stopers and 1-inch steel, 4.9 tons, cubic yards, rock, rock...
The window was open, and there were red flowers in a box outside. He sat in an armchair. They ought not to keep books away from him, surely? A man's mind couldn't be stopped turning by depriving him of books. That would only make it go round and round, instead of along the lines of the author's thought. The Spanish hills were brown across the bay. A coastal steamer had just cleared Algeciras Harbor, heading outside Europa Point, the Spanish colors of red and yellow painted huge on its side. The sky was still full of aircraft, and their droning went on day and night.
Joan came in and sat beside him. "Don't get up.... How are we feeling this afternoon? Good. You look better, too." She was nice, strong, no nonsense, everything clear: black, white—good, bad—us, them. Impossible to imagine her wondering who, or why, she was. Perhaps if you lived with her, you wouldn't worry either, because she would tell you, and you'd believe.
"Everything's going well," she said, "except at Casablanca."
"Eh? What's this? ... Oh, the African invasion."
"You poor dear, there's a war on, you know. They thought that's what was on your mind. You were gabbling a lot about evil, you know."
"Not the kind of thing one talks about," Sam said. "Sin. Crime. But not evil."
She said, "You've been working too hard. You didn't even know your own name, the nurse who admitted you told me. She said you kept telling her it was Conky."
"It is," he said. "Or should be. C.O.N.Q.U.Y. An old Jewish family of Gibraltar."
Her voice rose. "You're joking."
"You remember when I told you my father changed his name? I wrote that same day asking him what it was before that."
"And it was ... Conquy? I've seen the name on one of the houses here. Why didn't you tell me? Where's the letter?"
"I don't know," he said. The light was growing bright, dim. "Months ago. I... thought I had the letter, but then I couldn't find it. Must have torn it up, burned it, at once.
She said, "So that's why you've been so odd. And I thought it was just overwork."
His brain was missing its gears. He said, "Overwork, yes. Turning my world, my views, upside down. Listening to all the talk about Jews, but I am one. Hitler. What happens if we lose ... Suddenly, Joan, I began to understand, to feel, evil."
She was surreptitiously wiping tears from the corner of her eye with a handkerchief. "Mustn't excite you, Major Borthwick told me," she said. She got up to go.
He said, "I'm not the same man I was, Joan, but I feel the same about you as I did before."
She ran out of the room.
Patriotism is not enough, Sam repeated to himself. Nurse Cavell, 1915. I say unto you ... Blood toil sweat tears. Not enough either. Vengeance is mine saith the Lord. Suppose we tried wedge cuts instead of pyramid? Easers have a burden of three feet, yet they fall, so...
1944
Chaddock nodded, and Joe refilled his glass. Chaddock took the letter from his pocket and read it again. It was plain enough. His father had many faults, but he'd never known him to lie. So it must be the truth.
"D Day at last!" a corporal of the Devons shouted. "Now we'll show 'em."
"Up the 49th," shouted old Sergeant Tamlyn, whom no one had ever seen drunk.
"Roll out the barrel, we'll all have a barrel of fun."
"Hoo-bloody-ray, same again!"
"Make more quiet please, or M.P.'s come."
"Fuck the M.P.'s. Another pint, Joe."
Mr. Wardrop said, "Perhaps within my life-span on this accursed Rock we shall be getting some decent Holland gin again, the best, the only real gin, my friend. Where was I?"
" Death to the submarine ... ' "
"Ah, yes.
'Death to the submarine out in the night
Death to the crafty piratical foe
Swiftly we bring you the murderer's fate
Death to the slayer of mother and babe
Death to the Hun who has taught us to hate.'
How's that for a lambasting? They ought to recite that in the synagogues, eh, captain?"
Chaddock smiled faintly. He had told them all that his real name ought to be Conquy, though the Conquys in Gibraltar hadn't made any rush to claim him. In his only effort to establish contact, Mr. Conquy the jeweler had indicate
d politely that there was no trace of any member of the Gibraltar clan who could possibly have been his father, in South Africa or anywhere else. Well, that again tended to confirm this second letter. But what about the first? Had it not existed?
The Ape Corporal said, "So you will all be glad to hear that the apes are increasing. We shall win the ..
"We 'ave won!" a private yelled.
"Must have," Joe said sourly. "Yesterday an officer say he recommend me for medal. And Mr. Carlotti pay me back two pound he owe. Must be going to be an election soon."
"These apes have got brains. On New Year's Eve last year you know what one did? A young male called Pat. He tried to cross the boom that blocks the entrance to the Admiralty dockyard."
"Must have been a skirt on the other side."
"Gawd, that word's like a spanner. Every time someone says 'skirt' me nuts tighten."
"The navy's better at keeping the ruddy apes where they belong than the ruddy French...."
His words ended in a yell. "Here, what do you...?" and that in turn cut off by a fist smashed into his nose. The bar was full of bluejackets. Fists flew, glasses smashed, tables overturned. "You dirty pongo," a sailor near Chaddock snarled. His fist flashed out. Behind the bar Joe picked up the telephone and spoke a few words in it.
" 'Narrows the circle of flashes and flame
Closer and closer the columns of spray,' " chanted Mr. Wardrop.
** 'Whitey gray monsters from out of the deep
Ghosts of dead mariners claiming their prey.' "
A voice in Chaddock's ear shouted, "Here's another of them bastards in the shit-colored suits." A hand gripped his shoulder, then the voice said, "Christ, it's a fucking officer."
Chaddock felt suddenly hilarious. This was ridiculous and childish and atavistic, but it wasn't evil. He jerked out of his battle-dress blouse and said, "Now I'm not an officer, you bloody matlo. I'm a Royal Jewish Engineer. Take that!" He landed a good solid blow on the sailor's nose. Then the M.P.'s burst in.
Chaddock walked through the portal, went to the pickup station, and waited. Half a dozen miners were waiting already for the lorries that shuttled up and down the subterranean Great North Road carrying men to their shifts. They talked and smoked quietly. More came in from the open. Chaddock read his letter again under a bright bare bulb, shook his head, and put it away.
He looked around. There was something strange about tonight. Coming into the tunnel had not made him feel secure, that was it. For weeks, months, years, entry into the Rock had been recontact with reality, from an airy false world of emotions, of loyalties and jealousies, envies and fears, hunger and greed, hope and despair, all equally unreal.
Here inside the Rock—this very rock he leaned against, touching with his fingers—there was only air, light, heat, rock—reality, he had thought. But today it was the tunnel that seemed unreal, a glittering, beautiful, visionary elfland, and the lusts and angers and hilarity of the pub that were real. What was reality? Take the first letter from his father. Was that real or not? Had he imagined it? And if he had, did that make it unreal, for had it not changed his manner of living, his posture of being?
"Are ye no' coming, sir?"
The lorry was here and he climbed up into the back. He recognized Sapper Tim Althorne, a long cut over his right eye. Tim held up his hand, showing raw knuckles. "That were a good fight in the Moon and Bloomers," he said grinning. "Best I seen since I left Blaydon.... I saw you gi' that sailor something to remember you by!"
Sergeant Farley was already at the face, marking out the next round. Lieutenant Glass came away, lighting a cigarette. He was a tough capable young officer now. "You'll reach daylight, Sam," he said. "The brass hats will be here in strength to watch."
The drills started stammering, and Sam made a cursory tour of inspection. Methods had changed for the better, and he could take credit for a little of it. Holman hand drills instead of jackhammers; rip bits and studs, so the power tool could be worked longer hours: power loaders when the gradient permitted, and static winches beyond that: and of course diesel locos instead of hand tramming to and from the spoil boxes—he could hear the steady chugging of one of them behind him now; electric detonation instead of fuse; good ventilation ... that had been his real baby, the thing he had fought for all his time. He glanced up at the canvas ducting; that was the stuff, and to some extent he could take the credit. He coughed and mopped his face. It was hot here, near the surface. The drillers were resting more often than usual, too.
The telephone bell down the tunnel rang, and a voice shouted, "Captain Chaddock, Sergeant Farley, the major wants you both."
Farley joined him with a cheerful, "The buggers can only shoot us, sir." They set off together down the long tunnel. The company officers were in a deep bay off the Street, designed for use as headquarters for combat commands under full siege conditions.
Major Hughes stood up as they came in. He smiled and put out his hand. "Good news for both of you. You're both going on repat, on the next boat. They never say when that'll be, but between ourselves I hear a convoy'll be in the day after tomorrow."
Chaddock shook the proffered hand automatically. "Is that all?" he said. Had Hughes brought them away from the face just to hear this?
"No," the major said with a little frown. "You've been awarded the M.B.E., Chaddock, and sergeant, you've got the B.E.M."
Sergeant Farley made a comic face. "Gaffer Farley, B.E.M.? The buggers'll laugh me out of the cage, back home."
"Thanks," Chaddock said absently. It was becoming more unreal every moment.
"You deserve it," Hughes said. "It's for your work to improve our methods here, of course, particularly in ventilation. Now, I want to go through the company stores list and a few other things with you while we're waiting for the C.E. and the tunneling adviser. You'd better get back to the face, sergeant."
They sat down and set to work.
After a couple of hours the telephone rang. Hughes picked it up. "Commander. Yes. All right." He said to Chaddock, "They're ready to blast. I told them you'd be right along. But wait till we arrive before you fire."
A couple of hundred yards before he reached the face Chaddock passed the diesel loco that trammed the tubs. The engine was running, but he could see no driver. Glancing back after he had passed, he stopped, stared, and ran.
The driver of the loco had fallen from his seat. His head was on the ground, his feet up on the machine's side. It was Tim Althorne. The diesel fut-futted steadily on. Four hundred feet away the rest of the shift sat near the face, smoking, talking, and laughing animatedly.
Chaddock felt the man's heart. It was beating, but faintly and irregularly. His own heart pounded painfully, for he knew at once what had happened. He yelled, "Farley, send two men back to the loco, at the double. Phone for the oxygen crew."
A voice spoke over Chaddock's shoulder. "What's happened?"
He looked up. It was the brigadier, with Colonel Baines, the tunneling adviser. "Carbon monoxide," he said.
Farley ran up. "They're sending the oxygen right away, sir."
The C.E. said, "Turn off that damned thing." The diesel puttering stopped. "Don't move him for a moment, just lie him down properly. Disconnect those ducts, there, and let's have some air."
They waited. A truck engine raced in the Great North Road, then they heard boots, running. The stretcher team with the doctor and the oxygen arrived.
The C.E. said, "You'd better start an investigation as soon as we've blown, Hughes."
Chaddock walked ahead of them toward the face. At the forward fans he said, "Help me get these down, Farley."
"But, sir..." Farley began.
Chaddock shook his head wearily. "Thanks, sergeant, but I don't want to be protected." They brought a fan down. Chaddock looked at it, knowing what he would find. It was clogged with dust and grease. The other one was the same. He showed them to the C.E. "These fans have to be cleaned every forty-eight hours if there's to be proper ventilation at the face
," he said. "I proved that in forty-two. I had it written into the regulations here. I'm responsible for seeing that it's done. Last time, I forgot. Everyone trusted me, because I'm the expert on ventilation.... If Althorne's dead, I've killed him."
It was the business of the letter, he thought, that had made his mind wander; but that was no excuse.
The C.E. said, "You haven't killed anyone, Chaddock. You made a mistake, perhaps. We'll find out. Now blow the round. I want to see daylight."
The others crowded round the exploder. Farley stayed behind with Chaddock. "Don't take it so hard, sir," he said. "It's a bugger, but these things happen, tha' knows. Tim'll pull through."
"No thanks to me," Chaddock said.
The tunnel shook and shivered and rumbled. A current of strong, fresh air began to move up from behind. The miners raised a ragged cheer.
"Come on, Chaddock. Let's take a look. After fifteen thousand seven hundred twenty-nine feet, that's the least we deserve."
Chaddock crawled on hands and knees over the pile of rubble. The dawn light was spreading, and the sun was close below the rim of the violet sea. The drive had reached the open air.
"Look at this," a miner said. "The poor wee bugger." He held up a small skull. "A bairn. It's been here a long time, any road."
"That's the ghost's baby," the C.E. said jovially. "Give it a decent burial and you'll have no more trouble."
He held out his hand to Chaddock. "Congratulations. I'll be sorry to lose you.... You've got to care, Chaddock, but not worry."
The sun burst out of the sea, and Chaddock yawned mightily.
At Jews' Gate, when the sentry was checking their identity cards, Chaddock said, "We're going to look at the cemetery first."
"Very good, sir." The soldier handed back the document and saluted.
The flat tombstones were jammed together so tight that there was no path between. To get through the cemetery you had to walk on them. He peered down at the eroded Hebrew lettering, and Joan said, "Good heavens, have you learned to read those squiggles?" He did not answer. The cemetery had been abandoned nearly thirty years earlier, the Conquys had told him. It lay on the hillside above Windmill Hill Flats, looking toward Africa. Autumn crocus flowered in the crevices, and thorn bushes and scrub were creeping in to cover the stones.
