by John Harris
He tapped the ash from his cigarette. ‘You must accept,’ he continued slowly, ‘that, as things stand, all essential equipment, particularly wireless equipment, will be of the man-pack type as I can’t guarantee that our vehicles will travel in the same ship as we do. I’ve hardly been here long enough to make my presence felt and there seems to have been some confusion in the loading.’
He ran over a few other instructions and then smiled and took a deep breath. ‘Officially,’ he said, ‘this is an exercise, as I’ve told you, and orders are still a little confused. I understand, in fact, that supporting naval ships will fire only their light equipment at the shore, though even at this late stage no one seems quite certain even about that. There seems to be a little uncertainty still in London about whether we’re going to war or for a waltz round the daisies. As far as I’m personally concerned, however,’ his smile vanished abruptly, ‘where men are likely to be shot at – my men – I’m prepared to stick my neck out. My instructions, gentlemen, are that if anyone shoots at you, you shoot back. Because all this talk we’ve heard lately about what will happen if the Khanzians refuse to come to heel has become largely academic. I might as well be frank. Following the rioting in King Boffa Port, a final ultimatum was sent by Her Majesty’s Government and Colonel Scepwe has intimated that he intends to reject it.’
There were a few more sidelong glances among the seated officers, then Drucquer rose and turned to a blackboard behind him which was covered with a dust sheet.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘perhaps you’ll direct your attention this way for a moment while I give you chapter and verse.’
He pulled aside the dust sheet, and on the blackboard beneath was pinned a map. It was clearly a plan of a seaport and White could see the harbour marked on it, together with such obvious installations as the electricity, gas and water works; the Customs House, Pump House and the Cable and Wireless Station. Although the name of the place had been covered with a piece of pasted brown paper, White recognised it at once as King Boffa Port.
Drucquer smiled and borrowed a walking stick from one of the officers.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said, jabbing at the map, ‘the – er – exercise area.’
Part Two
One
Near the Customs House, three ancient LSTs had nosed in to the concrete ramp that ran down to the water’s edge, and Military and RAF Police, among them Sergeant O’Mara, were doing their best to keep order among the stream of vehicles that was inching down towards the sea.
Standing by the Harbourmaster’s telephone, Ginger Bowen watched the scene with as much pleasure as the hundreds of Malalans who, in between selling limes, bananas and oranges to the sweating troops, laughed and cheered and turned somersaults every time the traffic stream became snarled up.
As the vehicles came to a stop for the fiftieth time that morning, he felt glad he wasn’t part of it. From the goodness of his heart and, determined to get Ginger aboard without him finding more trouble, Sergeant O’Mara had managed to have him detailed to his party as a runner. It didn’t involve Ginger in much beyond remaining always under the eye of the police and saved him the frustration of lining up to go aboard the old destroyer, Banff, that lay alongside the mole. Ginger would walk aboard calmly and in comfort later in the day, safely escorted, true, by Sergeant O’Mara or one of his corporals, but at least spared the misery of exhaustion at that moment being endured by the rest of Lieutenant Jinkinson’s section.
‘You’d have thought they’d have given us something a bit better to travel in,’ Private Wedderburn said, staring up at Banff.
‘You ain’t a first-class fare, brother,’ Leach commented. ‘You’re a fifth-rate individual. Sergeants, corporals and regulars are fourth-rate – they haven’t had their pay stopped. Officers is third-rate. Majors and above is second-rate, and the General’s first-rate. He travels on a cruiser,’ he glanced towards the bay where the old radar and helicopter cruiser, Leopard, lay, her anti-radiation paint dazzling in the sun, her awnings down and stripped for action, ‘if you can call that bloody thing first-rate.’
‘They’re shoving blokes on a harbour installation job over there,’ one of the sailors standing by the gangplank intervened. ‘You should complain. Packing ’em in among the buoys and chain cable.’
Wedderburn, sweating under his rifle and pack, turned aggrieved eyes up to the deck of the destroyer, where a few listless men waited. ‘What’s the matter with this bloody Navy of ours?’ he demanded. ‘Haven’t they got any decent ships these days? Why do we have to travel in old scows like these?’
The sailor by the gangplank frowned, unwilling to let the insult pass. ‘Take a look at some of your own bloody equipment,’ he suggested.
‘This ship was built thirty years ago,’ Wedderburn pointed out indignantly. ‘I know. My old man worked on it on Clydeside.’
‘And them bloody lorries of yours was probably built about the same time,’ the sailor retorted. ‘Judging by the way they keep breaking down.’ He indicated a traffic jam on the concrete ramp near the landing craft, Thruster.‘Look, there’s another. And it’s one of yours.’
Alongside the halted lorry, Lieutenant Jinkinson was bawling out the driver, Private Spragg, who was standing wooden-faced and unco-operative beside the open bonnet with his mate, Private McKechnie.
‘Can’t you get the bloody thing moving?’ Jinkinson was saying.
‘No, sir.’ Spragg’s moist face was blank and uncommunicative. ‘Starter’s gone, I think.’
‘Didn’t you check it?’
‘Yes, sir. It should have been changed. Workshops said so. There was no spares.’
‘Couldn’t you fix it?’
‘I thought I had, sir.’
There was a stubborn, unwilling look on Spragg’s face, and Jinkinson stared hard at him.
‘You’re a National Serviceman, aren’t you?’ he said.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You up to something?’
‘Up to something, sir?’
‘Pulling a fast one, because the Government cut your pay?’
Spragg stared back at Jinkinson unblinkingly. ‘Stopping a lorry wouldn’t make much difference to that, sir, would it?’ he said. ‘I’m a National Serviceman. I’m the lowest form of animal life. I can’t change that.’
‘Cut that out,’ Jinkinson snarled. ‘We’re all in this together.’
‘Yes, sir. Only you’re getting a lot more pay for it than I am.’
It was while Jinkinson was still staring, baffled, at Spragg and McKechnie, that White appeared with Frensham.
‘We’re behind schedule,’ he pointed out.
‘The bloody thing’s conked,’ Jinkinson said in despair.
White indicated his own vehicles. ‘If we don’t get our people on board,’ he warned, ‘you’ll miss us like hell when it comes to hitting the beaches.’
‘Oh, come off it,’ Jinkinson said. ‘It’s only an exercise.’
White frowned, cursing the instructions that had allowed Drucquer to inform only his senior officers and had obliged them to leave the subalterns in the dark.
‘We’ll still do it properly,’ White snapped. ‘Since ACT5’s working with your section, I’m insisting.’
‘Oh, very well!’ Jinkinson looked desperate and indicated Spragg. ‘I think that bastard’s pulling a fast one, though,’ he said. ‘But I can’t prove it.’
‘You’re jamming up the works,’ White pointed out angrily. ‘You shouldn’t be ahead of us, anyway. You’ve got out of turn.’
‘Well, what can I do?’
‘Offload the blasted thing, man! Get the gear out and shove it on board. They’ll have time to fix the engine while we’re at sea.’
Jinkinson gave him a look which was compounded of sourness at the reprimand and relief at the suggestion.
‘OK,’ he said. He turned to McKechnie and Spragg. ‘Let’s have some of the chaps up here. Chuck all that equipment out.’
In the admiral’s quarters on b
oard Leopard, General Hodges was frowning over the proposed bombardment task-table and the recommendations of the Support Committee on opportunity targets. Alongside him, Leggo leaned over the table with Fraschetti and Lyall, Hodges’ senior staff officers, who were arguing over a course with the ship’s captain and the Fleet Navigation Officer. The Naval Officer in Command, Rear-Admiral Dennis Downes, was by the door, poring over maps and charts and carrying on a disjointed conversation with Hodges over his shoulder.
The Senior Naval Officer had that spotless look of efficiency that seemed peculiar to so many seafaring men, but he looked irritated and frustrated at that moment, as though things were not going to his liking. He was small and slight, with an impressive row of ribbons and probably more sea time than any other officer in the shrunken Royal Navy, and he had a reputation for being the sort of man who stood no nonsense from anyone, not even the First Sea Lord.
‘The aircraft are due to go in at 0500,’ Hodges was saying. ‘That’s half an hour before the opening of the naval barrage, which is the same time as the parachutists start to drop on the outskirts and one hour before we start putting our chaps ashore.’
Downes looked round. ‘Is that the last alteration to the plan?’
‘London says so.’
‘That’s what they said last time.’ Downes frowned. ‘And what’s all this damn nonsense about the RAF carrying only 14-pound bombs?’
‘Westminster.’ Hodges looked over his glasses. ‘Politicians never fail to imagine that zeal can replace lack of weapons, and ardour make up for lack of weight. They’ve always felt that the force of an idea – a country reborn, that sort of slot-machine claptrap they talk in the House – can make up for deficiencies in matériel. They think our enthusiasm’s sufficient, Dennis, and I suspect they’re afraid of world opinion.’
Downes frowned. ‘Fourteen-pound bombs can kill as well as blockbusters,’ he pointed out in a growl, ‘but they’re not so bloody good, Horace, at softening a place up for an invasion. It’s a pity that blasted rioting at King Boffa Port didn’t start a few weeks later.’ He glared at the chart for a second, then glanced at Hodges again. ‘Who was responsible for that little bunfight, anyway, Horace? Us?’
Hodges smiled. ‘Shouldn’t think so,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t put it past Braka though – to nudge us into a bit of action. Aswana came round to put his spoke in afterwards. The usual load of blood and guts. He seemed to think it the duty of a Deputy C-in-C.’
Downes scowled. He had no love for the Malalan Commander-in-Chief either.
‘Horace,’ he went on. ‘What’s wrong with ’em at home? Those bloody landing craft they allotted us first were almost useless and some of the wooden-hulled sweepers were rotten. I’m told the RAF’s worried sick about unserviceability, too – because it’s not all due to spare-part shortage.’
‘I heard that,’ Hodges said shortly. ‘I’m worried, too.’
Downes’ heavy brows knitted again. ‘It’s also come to my knowledge,’ he said, ‘that naval liberty men have been holding meetings. In Pepul Town somewhere. I’ve not been able to find out why yet, but I’d hazard a guess.’
Hodges faced him, his eyes steady. ‘So would I, Dennis,’ he said.
Downes’ frown became ferocious. ‘It might have been bearable,’ he said bitterly, ‘if we had the backing of the rest of the world.’
Hodges nodded. ‘It would have helped,’ he commented shortly.
‘Chap I know in town here,’ Downes waved a hand. ‘Radio expert. American. Saw him two days ago. Showed me some reports he’d picked up from the American stations. Seemed to think they might make me change my mind. As if I could.’
‘Reports?’ Hodges’ mind was not entirely on what Downes was saying.
‘He’d taped ’em and had ’em typed out for me.’
‘What sort of reports were they?’
‘One of ’em mentioned that a British R5 had been shot down over King Boffa Port by the new Migs. The report suggests the pilots weren’t Malalans and that they had a damn good radar system working.’
‘That’s a nice thought.’
‘I wish that were all,’ Downes admitted. ‘There was another one about a serious division within the Commonwealth and the deplorable divergence of opinion between the UK and the States. They’re saying in New York that we’re making a major error and that if we go any further what’s left of the Commonwealth will break up.’ He looked up. ‘It nearly did over Suez, you know.’
‘Go on, Dennis,’ Hodges said.
Downes stared at him for a second, then he drew a deep breath. ‘They’re saying that the last vestige of European influence in Africa will disappear,’ he went on, ‘and the Chinese will move in. They said…’ He stopped and, unlocking a drawer, took out a buff envelope. ‘Oh, hell, see them for yourself Horace! They make sorry reading. I was going to destroy ’em, but these things have a fatal fascination, don’t they?’
‘Yes,’ Hodges said. ‘They do.’
He paused, then he looked at Downes again. ‘It might interest you,’ he said, ‘to know that I’ve had a few reports of my own. In fact, I’ve had the Mayor of Pepul to see me, and a visit from the Police Chief. About this statue of Queen Victoria that’s been defaced.’
Downes’ grave face softened into a grin. ‘Wouldn’t have thought the old dear meant all that much to ’em these days,’ he said.
‘I don’t suppose she does,’ Hodges agreed. ‘But even if you don’t like the shape of your own gatepost, you’re still going to object if the kids of a chap down the street daub paint all over it.’
Downes nodded. ‘What happened?’
‘I said I’d try to find the culprit. Don’t suppose I shall, of course, but the offer seemed to satisfy them. They promised not to pass it on to Machingo. They will, of course – unofficially.’
‘I shouldn’t think Braka’s very concerned about Queen Victoria,’ Downes observed.
‘I’m concerned, Dennis. It’s symptomatic of what’s going on all round us, isn’t it?’
Downes rubbed his nose uneasily. ‘Some bloody fool on Duck,’ he said, ‘painted a hammer and sickle on one of the gun turrets.’
Hodges’ eyebrows raised. He found he wasn’t surprised.
‘I’ve demanded an enquiry,’ Downes growled, his blue eyes glinting. ‘I expect there’ll be a report along.’
‘I expect there will,’ Hodges said dryly. ‘We go in for reports in a big way. I’ve got another on an incident in the 4th/74th. Some fool of an officer got drunk and, after urinating on one of the boats at the small boat jetty, he offered the harbourmaster corporal a couple of bottles of beer to keep him quiet. His colonel’s seen him and docked him six months’ seniority and I’ve sent both men home. It’s not much, and there are always a certain number of fools in any force, but the corporal would normally have made nothing of it. This time he reported it. Why?’
Downes lit a cigarette and stared fiercely at it as Hodges went on.
‘Even here in Pepul,’ he said, ‘there hasn’t been whole-hearted support. The Provost people tell me that in Saba Town a chap who was working for us has been murdered, and another chap has had his shop burned down for selling to the troops. I don’t like it, Dennis. All these reports of yours and all these of mine, together with a few others I got from Stuart Leggo last night but which I won’t go into just now, they all add up to something I don’t care for.’
Hodges gazed at Downes and held out his hand for the naval man’s envelope. ‘Mind if I keep ’em?’ he asked. ‘I might need ’em.’
Downes shrugged. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘That was the idea.’
Hodges took the papers and placed them on the maps on the table. Leggo and the others were deep in their discussion and didn’t seem to notice his concern.
For a moment he stared at the envelope, thinking. The newspaper correspondents who’d been assigned to what they still fondly imagined was an exercise had begun to arrive in Pepul and he had to face them in a short time. He
’d held them off as long as possible but he still had to brief them.
God knows what I’m going to say, he thought. They’d ask too many questions as usual and, for once, he hadn’t got all the answers. He wondered for a moment if he could push the job on to Leggo, but he decided that would be unfair and cowardly. It was his job and he had to do it, much as he hated evasion and half-truths.
He glanced at Downes with a wry smile. ‘If it’s any help, Dennis,’ he said, ‘remember you’re only the driver. I’m the passenger you’re carrying to do the job.’
Downes stared back at him for a second, realising how much greater was the burden on Hodges.
He nodded. ‘That’s right, of course,’ he said. ‘Wish I could have done my bit better, Horace. But the base facilities here have been so bloody awful. All ships over five thousand tons have to remain outside, and at Korno the Malalans are having to load from lighters. I wish someone in Westminster had made their minds up a bit more quickly. The whole operation’s been plagued with uncertainty. For instance, we put bunks in the only helicopter carrier we had, so it could be used as a trooper, then we had to burn ’em all out again. All of ’em – because it was decided to use extra choppers instead.’
He paused. ‘There’s one other thing,’ he ended. ‘It may interest you to know I’ve had a signal from the Director of Naval Intelligence. There are reports of Russian submarines at Point Z–’ he jabbed at the map – ‘in the area between Pepul and King Boffa Port.’
Hodges’ face showed no emotion, not even surprise. ‘What are they doing there?’ he asked.
‘We don’t know,’ Downes admitted. ‘And neither does the DNI. It’s none of our business. They’re not in anybody’s territorial waters, of course, but if we take this lot to sea, they’ll probably be smack in our path.’
Hodges lit his pipe and began to blow out blue smoke. ‘There’s nothing we can do,’ he said. ‘They’ll sort out that one at UNO.’
At least, he thought, he hoped they’d sort it out at UNO. Personally, he had an idea it was going to take some sorting out.
