The Man who Missed the War

by Dennis Wheatley

  ‘You certainly seem to have thought of everything. How much cargo would one of these raft convoys bring over?’

  ‘A hundred and twenty-five thousand tons.’

  ‘That sounds an enormous amount!’

  ‘Well, if each raft is a hundred feet square, that gives it an area of ten thousand square feet. I should make the cargo containers five feet in height; no more as it is the Gulf Stream that we are mainly depending on—the prevailing wind is only a subsidiary factor, and if the height of the containers is kept low the current would more or less neutralise anything but a strong adverse wind once the sails were down or blown out. Five feet in height would give us fifty thousand cubic feet of cargo space, and the measure being forty cubic feet to the ton it comes out at one thousand two hundred and fifty tons per raft, and for the hundred rafts one hundred and twenty-five thousand.’

  ‘I do congratulate you,’ the Canon said enthusiastically. ‘Of course, there may be all sorts of snags to it that a professional sailor would point out, but for the life of me I can’t see why it shouldn’t work. Unless the containers are very strong and absolutely watertight they would not be suitable for the transport of the more easily spoiled types of cargo, and the time taken is against anything that would be required on a high priority. But, even if it did take two or three months to get each of your convoys over, it still seems the perfect answer to lifting from our ordinary shipping the burden of the millions of tons of raw materials and tinned goods that we’d need in a war. I take it, too, that these rafts would prove practically unsinkable if attacked by enemy submarines?’

  Philip laughed as he rolled up the big sheet of paper. ‘Yes, in a way that’s the cream of the whole idea. A U-boat could sink the tugs and blow the rafts to pieces one by one by gunfire, but to do that she’d have to surface, and she wouldn’t dare do that so long as the mother-ship were afloat. The rafts would draw so little water that torpedoes would pass right under their bottoms—even if a U-boat captain considered it worth launching a £2,000 tinfish at one of them. In addition, they are as invulnerable from air attack as anything afloat can be. I worked it out that the total area of the hundred rafts comes to one million square feet, while the area covered by the whole convoy, when fully extended, would be eighty-one million; so the odds against a bomber getting a direct hit on any of the rafts would be eighty-one to one. And the worst that anything short of a direct hit could do would be to capsize one of the rafts or break some of the cables.’

  ‘Have you shown this idea to your father yet?’

  ‘No. He’s away on one of his duty visits to Devonport at the moment.’

  ‘But you will, of course, when he gets back?’

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ Philip replied a trifle hesitantly.

  A little smile twitched the corners of the Canon’s mobile mouth. ‘You’re afraid of your father, aren’t you, Philip? I mean, in spite of the fact that you have the courage to defy him occasionally when you get yourself really wrought up, you are generally vaguely apprehensive in case he will disapprove of anything a little out of the ordinary that you may do or say.’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose I am. How did you know?’

  ‘Oh, I just sensed it. But you shouldn’t be, you know. He’s very fond of you, and extremely proud of the way you’ve buckled down to making a career for yourself. He’s said so to me on more than one occasion.’

  ‘He certainly doesn’t go out of his way to show it when I’m about.’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose he does. Like so many people, unfortunately, he’s tied up in knots and finds it difficult to give expresson to his feelings. That’s all the more reason why you should give him all the opportunities you can to get closer to you. Age is no barrier between friends, and there is no earthly reason why it should be between parents and their children. I do urge you, Philip, to try to make more of a friend of your father, for his sake as well as your own, and to ask his views on this provides an excellent opening.’

  ‘All right,’ Philip agreed. ‘He’ll almost certainly think I’m crazy, but I’ll try the raft convoy on him when he gets back from Devonport next week.’

  3

  ‘In the Midst of Life …’

  Having consulted his father, Philip telephoned the Canon and was again asked to dinner. When he reached the Rectory he found his host in the garden, admiring the crocuses, narcissi and daffodils in his Spring border; but he turned at once on Philip’s approach and, taking his arm, exclaimed: ‘Well, what does he think of it?’

  ‘He was very much nicer about it than I thought he would be,’ said Philip. ‘I expected him to say the whole thing was sheer lunacy, but he didn’t. He put down his Times at once and seemed quite flattered at being consulted. He heard me out to the end too, and then asked all sorts of shrewd questions; but I’m afraid it’s no good.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He agrees that the fundamental idea of using the Gulf Stream and the prevailing wind is quite sound; but he said that I’m wrong in supposing that because the rafts were all moving in the same direction and under the same stresses they would automatically keep station. He was quite definite that even if we used double cables to connect the rafts they would snap in no time.’

  ‘Well, that is a blow!’ For a moment the Canon was silent, then he went on. ‘You know, I was really convinced that you had something that might be of inestimable value to the country if we do have to fight the Germans again. However I suppose it’s not much good pursuing it further, if your father considers it quite impracticable.’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’ Philip sighed; and to take his mind off his disappointment the Canon changed the subject.

  For several months neither of them mentioned the Raft Convoy again; but their three evenings alone together in so short a time had greatly strengthened the bond between them, and it gradually became a regular custom for Philip to dine with the Canon every ten days or so.

  Although now twenty-two, Philip was in some ways still young and undeveloped for his age. He had never been a keen dancer and was not very interested in either girls or sport. From the time he had been given his first set of Meccano all his enthusiasm had been devoted to mechanical things and engineering problems. By securing a good opening in a big aircraft firm he had already achieved one of his ambitions, but now, after the excitement of the first months in the works had worn off, he might normally have become more socially inclined. Instead, his friendship with the wise and worldly Canon supplied him with all the new interest he needed to keep his active mind fully occupied. On their evenings together they talked of many things, and Philip, whose education had been mainly devoted to practical subjects, found himself embarking for the first time on the fascinating realm of speculation—of mythology, pre-history, philosophy, ethics, psychology—and he rarely left the Rectory without borrowing two or three books from the great collection that lay scattered all over the house.

  From mid-May onwards, whenever it was fine, they spent most of the evening in the old garden. They were out in it one sultry night in September and had not spoken for some time. All the world was worried because Mr. Chamberlain had gone to Munich, and nobody yet knew if he would bring back peace or war. Suddenly, the Canon broke the companionable silence.

  ‘Philip, did you ever do anything more about your raft convoy?’

  ‘No. I thought about it for a bit, but Father’s objection seemed to create a complete impasse. If the strain would snap the cables how else could one keep the convoy together? There just doesn’t seem any answer to that.’

  ‘You didn’t try to get a second opinion?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, I think you should.’ The Canon leant forward earnestly. ‘The Powers that sustain Good against Evil made the tides and the winds just as much as they made us. This Nazi thing is evil; few of us can doubt that now. It thrives on the persecution of the innocent and seeks to rule by force through Fear. God knows we’re in no state to wage war, but we may have to if we are to save our so
uls alive! If we have to pass through the fire again, the Great Ones will not forsake us, because, however shy the British people may be of admitting it, they still carry in their hearts the insignia of Saint George. Yet the Great Ones choose strange ways to aid those of their children who stand in dire peril through their own folly, and their maps are far larger than any the puny mind of man could conceive; so it may be that even when the world was young they foresaw this coming hour of trial, and ordained the ocean drift from West to East to be our salvation.’

  He thoughtfully snapped off the dead head of a late rose before continuing: ‘I think you ought to put down your whole scheme on paper as clearly but as briefly as you can and send it, or—better still—take it yourself, to the Admiralty.’

  Philip nodded. ‘It’s queer that you should suggest that, because only this morning I was thinking just the same thing. Unfortunately old Admiral Jolly is out in the Mediterranean now—otherwise, I’d take it to him.’

  For the next few nights he worked like a beaver, but by the time he had finished his draft Mr. Chamberlain was back from Munich with his piece of paper, and admiring crowds were applauding him for having secured ‘Peace in our time’.

  Philip took his draft round to the Canon, who suggested a few minor improvements, and they discussed its prospects.

  ‘I don’t stand anything like the chance of securing a good hearing as I did a week ago,’ said Philip ruefully.

  ‘I don’t altogether agree about that,’ the Canon replied. ‘The Service Chiefs must have the sense to realise that our having thrown the unfortunate Czechs to the wolves cannot possibly be the final solution of our own problem. Personally, it wouldn’t surprise me at all if Chamberlain were for once pulling a fast one on Hitler. The Prime Minister must know how hopelessly unprepared for war we are, and this may be a ruse to lull Germany’s suspicions—a measure to buy time—while we set our house in order and rearm as swiftly as we can.’

  ‘Perhaps. If you’re right the old raft convoy may meet with a good reception. In any case, I’m determined now to do my damnedest to put it over. I believe in it. I’m dead certain that the scheme could be made workable if only the Admiralty technicians got busy on it.’

  Three days later, he obtained a day off from his job to go to London, and by making use of his father’s name secured an interview with a pink-faced, youngish Naval Commander in the Plans Division of the Admiralty.

  The Commander listened politely to what Philip had to say, scrutinised the drawings, then looked up with a cheerful smile.

  ‘Well, Mr. Vaudell, I must say your idea is most ingenious, but I’m afraid I can’t possibly express an opinion as to whether it would work or not. It’s a bit Jules Verne-ish if you don’t mind my saying so; but, then, so was his book Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea—before we had submarines! My difficulty is that you’ve really come to the wrong shop. It may sound rather silly to you, but in the Plans Division we don’t deal with this sort of thing at all. We’re only Plans in the operational sense. However, I’ll pass your stuff on to the right department for an opinion.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Philip. ‘I’d be grateful if you would. But, just as a matter of interest, do you think it looks like a practical proposition?’

  The sailor fingered his smooth chin. ‘The strain on those cables would be terrific, and I’m afraid the whole thing would break up if it ran into an even moderately heavy sea; but, of course, only an expert could say definitely. One small point I would suggest is that each of the cargo containers should have a square hole in its middle: a sort of well, you know, about six feet by six. It wouldn’t mean sacrificing very much of your cargo space, and it might prove useful as a refuge for your servicing crew should they be caught in a sudden squall. However, that’s a detail. Anyhow, we’re very grateful indeed to you for bringing us your idea.’

  Philip thought the suggestion of the refuge-well a good one, and said that he would incorporate it in his final plan.

  Three days later, he received a letter bearing the embossed anchor crest of the Admiralty. He tore it open with trembling fingers, only to find that it contained nothing but a formal acknowledgment of his papers.

  The time of waiting that followed seemed interminable. Philip now felt certain that war was impending as the Air Ministry sent a high official to the works to address the senior staff, draughtsmen and shop stewards. The short talk was mainly about Security and the necessity for concealing, even from their families, details of forthcoming increased Government orders; and, after hinting at the gravity of the European situation, the speaker urged the workers to do all in their power to increase output.

  Captain Vaudell was also now putting in longer hours at his office in Portsmouth and making more frequent trips to the other Naval Dockyards which he visited from time to time. Occasionally he still had one or two of his brother officers to dinner, and from their conversation one evening Philip learnt to his fury that yet more millions of the all too small Naval Estimates were being devoted to the laying-down of two more huge battleships, which Service rumour had it were to be named Anson and Howe.

  ‘How soon are they likely to be ready, sir?’ he asked one of the guests, a dark hatchet-faced Post Captain.

  ‘They’re scheduled for commissioning in 1943,’ was the prompt reply.

  ‘But surely,’ protested Philip, ‘if there is going to be a war it will break out long before that, and with luck might even be all over by then. Wouldn’t it be sounder to concentrate on smaller stuff for quick delivery which would be of some use to us if we have to fight this year or next?’

  The Captain shrugged. ‘Oh, war or no war, we must keep up our long-term building programme, you know.’

  Quite unreasonably, the episode left a bitter taste in Philip’s mouth. Alone in his bedroom later that night, he raged silently against such stupidity.

  ‘Fools! Blockheads! With their Big Ships which in future could be no more than a target for bombs. When would they learn sense? When they found themselves struggling in the oily sea, going down for the third time, after a direct hit had exploded a magazine, perhaps! But, in the meantime, the old diehards at the Admiralty were squandering Britain’s last chance to prepare for a modern Naval war. Yet there must be some men with brains and vision at the Admiralty—people who realised that within a few months we might be at war and the fate of the whole free world depend on our ability to keep Britain open and supplied as a base for operating against the tyranny which was gradually engulfing Europe. One of them would see his plan and the raft convoy would be adopted. It simply must be.’

  The blow was all the heavier when a few days later he received a communication from the Admiralty. The printed slip read: ‘We thank you for giving us the opportunity of examining your … but regret that we cannot at present recommend that an offer should be made with a view to acquiring rights in it.’ The blank had been filled in with the words ‘Raft Convoy’, and below appeared a meaningless scrawl, which was, apparently, the signature of the Secretary of a ‘Committee for the Examination of Devices’, together with a typed postscript to the effect that his plans were being returned under separate cover.

  Philip at once rang up the Canon who, detecting the crushing disappointment in his voice, did his best to console him and asked him to dinner the following night.

  When Philip arrived at the Rectory he was still seething with indignation that the examiners had not even considered his idea worthy of a personal letter and a few words as to why they had turned it down. The Canon let him rant for a bit, then turned the conversation to other things over dinner, only reverting to the subject of the Raft Convoy much later that evening.

  ‘Do you consider,’ he asked quite suddenly, ‘that your great scheme, if adapted solely to commercial ends, would prove a paying proposition?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ said Philip slowly; then, after a pause, he added more quickly: ‘But, of course, it would! In peacetime there would be no need for a mother-ship. The spare sails and c
ables could be carried in the tugs. Twelve men apiece would be ample for their crews, and that’s many less than the average freighter carries. The fuel consumption of the tugs would be negligible, and with each convoy one could bring over the best part of a hundred and twenty-five thousand tons of cargo. If a company took it up they would earn terrific dividends.’

  ‘That’s more or less the conclusion to which I came when I was thinking over your setback last night,’ smiled the Canon. ‘Of course, you must remember that you could use your rafts only one way, so you’d have to build new ones for each trip, and new cargo containers, too, unless you shipped the old ones back; but there should still be a very handsome profit. Have you any idea what the building of a hundred-raft convoy would cost?’

  ‘Not the vaguest, but I suppose I could find out by making a series of calculations about the wood and cable and so on that would be needed, and writing to the various firms for quotations.’

  ‘Then, why not do that? When you’ve got your figures you could draft a prospectus with a view to floating a company. You see, if you could only get the thing going as a commercial concern our purpose would be served, as the Government would take it over immediately war broke out.’

  ‘Gosh, yes!’ Philip whistled, then jumped to his feet and began pacing up and down the room. ‘That’s a marvellous idea of yours—absolutely smashing! But the trouble is that it takes money to float companies, and I haven’t any!’

  ‘Do you know what today is?’ the Canon asked.