59

Captain Lester M. Bayard, OBE, RCNR, was the Naval Control Service Officer under the commanding officer Atlantic Coast in Halifax. He was a bemused, good-natured man who had seen service in the first war and had been staff captain of the Queen of Bermuda in the thirties; she was a luxury liner the British had requisitioned for war duties. He occupied a large corner office in the main headquarters building, in a wing diametrically across from the admiral himself. He had the important job of organizing the merchant ships into convoys and getting them to sea. When one considers that these included every conceivable type of ship, of just about every nationality, the importance of his work becomes evident. He wore the interlocking stripes of the RCNR on his cuffs, and five ribbons on his left shoulder. He carried all of this lightly, and he had enormous reserves of patience. His hair was dark brown, greying at the temples, and he had a boyish twinkle in his eyes.

Captain Bayard commanded a large and variegated staff. There was a baron from the Free French Navy, and a Danish lieutenant, and a Dutch lieutenant commander. There were the inevitable scattering of Englishmen and some Canadians too. His secretaries and stenographers were multilingual. Amid all this, he quietly radiated a great air of authority. This was where the fighting navy interlocked with the merchant marine; traditionally, there was no love lost between them. Diplomatic skills were essential to keep the notoriously independent skippers in line. This organization worked on a level basis with Naval Intelligence and had to be counted in on virtually every decision made up and down the ladder relating to convoys, which were the Royal Canadian Navy’s raison d’être. Supplies had to get through in enormous quantities.

Sub-lieutenant Patrick MacQueen reported for duty and the captain received him, which was only a matter of etiquette. His large desk was angled in a corner, flanked by huge windows overlooking the harbour and out to the distant Atlantic Ocean. It was a panorama that Patrick knew quite well, and it could be freely seen by any spy from the top of Citadel Hill, the historic fort that dominates Halifax.

The captain watched as the slim young man, with his cap correctly under one arm and his left hand gloved, clicked his heels.

“Welcome aboard, young MacQueen,” said the captain, rising and extending his hand. “I know your parents—how are they?”

This instantaneous coming together of worlds was quite familiar to old West Indian hands and it brought a shaft of joy to Patrick’s heart. He searched his memory for this senior officer’s identity and quietly cursed himself for having neglected to inquire. “They are quite well, sir,” he replied hesitantly.

The captain knew the dilemma and smiled. “I served on the Queen,” he said. “You were with us in ‘thirty-nine, as I recall. I had a drink with your father at the Yacht Club just before he left Bermuda—due to a death in the family, I think? Please, stand easy and take that chair.”

Patrick sat down, erectly and correctly. His mind was torn from the surrounding preparations for war and refocused on the memory of his little sister running naked down a sandy beach. He shook his head, and the captain came back into view. “My little sister,” he said. “That would have been nineteen thirty-eight, sir.”

“Yes, I recall it now,” said the captain. “I am sorry, but it’s all sad history now. We have a job to do here and we must get on with it. Do you know anything of our operation?”

“No, sir,” admitted Patrick. “I don’t recall it as a subject at Naval College. I should have learned more at Sydney but I expected an appointment to go to sea.”

The captain slowly shook his head and smiled with tolerance. “You’ll get further here,” he said. “There are more important things than watery graves. Confidentially, I have a problem. If you can solve it I will get you to sea.”

Patrick made a brief scan of his past, but he couldn’t imagine how this imposing officer could have a problem that he might solve. He waited silently and felt a creeping gnaw of suspicion that he was being painted into a corner.

“We have an adjunct here,” continued the captain, “called the Naval Boarding Service. They are all good men and they do good work inspecting the merchant ships for sabotage, defusing trouble, and making intelligence reports. But they are untidy, and the admiral has complained to me personally. Their boss is an old merchantman himself who writes poetry. They are a salty bunch, but I want you to get in there and smarten them up. Can you do that?”

“I was in the army for a while, sir,” replied Patrick, rather pleased with the prospect of putting that experience to some use. “I will certainly give it a try.”

“Glad to hear it. This little chat is confidential,” said the captain. He rose and walked around the corner of the desk. “No one should suspect our little agreement, and you will have your choice of ships when the time comes. Just leave that to me.”

Patrick rose, and the captain opened the door. “Miss Stevenson,” he called. “This is Sub-lieutenant MacQueen, an old friend from Bermuda days. He will be serving with the Boarding Service—would you take him in hand and introduce him about?”

The main office was large, with six desks aligned along the walls. Smaller offices led off this at right angles; across the corridor was the office of the Naval Boarding Service. It was hardly impressive and used just by the officers. The boarding parties had their quarters near an old sail loft in the dockyard. Patrick was introduced around the offices; the place had a remarkably international and cosmopolitan air. The French baron looked like the film star Paul Henreid, and the Dutchman was an affable burgher from The Hague. One of the English officers had steady eyes and the look of raw intellect; others were scholarly or reserved, but they were all friendly. The ladies were busy but obviously handpicked, and there was the sense of high priority about these surroundings. They were the lubricants between the pride of the navy and the stubbornness of the merchant marine. Without them, the whole show would seize up…and they were quietly aware of it. They were redundant in peacetime, but Patrick hardly remembered those days.

The Naval Boarding Service had been tacked onto this apparatus to provide on-the-spot and mobile customer service. They travelled by harbour craft in groups of six men and an officer, visiting the ships anchored in Bedford Basin or greeting them at the harbour’s entrance. They climbed up and down rope ladders, inspected cargoes, and broke up fights. They distributed aid packages and fur vest coats, and got the latest news of U-boat tactics. They were butted by goats on Greek tramp steamers and threatened by Lascar stokers. The new American Liberty ships were a revelation in comfortable seagoing travel, but they all took their chances with the vast ocean and the enemy below. The ratings were armed with Smith and Wesson .45 revolvers and carried miniature searchlights. Their bell-bottom trousers were tucked into short web leggings, and they wore hooded duffle coats against the cold of the coming winter. No one would get a medal for this work, but it had to be done—and everyone in Halifax remembered when a munitions ship blew up in 1917 and demolished half the city. Some of these ships carried a cargo of phosgene gas, which would be even more deadly, and they all carried high explosives of one kind or another.

Bedford Basin could accommodate over one hundred ships. They sailed one at a time through the Narrows and below the Wellington Barracks—now named the Nelson Barracks—past the dockyard, and then through the anti-submarine net. They sailed forth between Fort Sandwich and past McNabs Island to assemble in convoy and head across the Atlantic. The convoys attracted U-boats like a magnet, and their protection versus aggressive counteraction were the classic horns of a dilemma. It was never really solved. There were no dreamers among the men who manned these ships, and their captains were a salty, hard-bitten bunch of professional seamen. Their opinion of the navy, with its high-handed ways, was not very great, and they obeyed orders with a grim resignation. The troopships sailed fast and alone, giants of the sea that dwarfed everything in sight.

The dockyard where the boarding parties had their quarters in the old sail loft was officially HMCS Stadacona. The leading seaman in charge was an old rumrunner from Lunenburg, and he still walked with a swaying gait. Most of them had been to sea, either in the navy or the merchant marine, and they were quite content with this relatively comfortable berth on the beach. The overall boss was a proselytizing lieutenant commander who belonged to the Oxford Group. His executive officer was a Norwegian with a temporary rank of lieutenant in the RCNVR. Under them were two more lieutenants, three sub-lieutenants (including Patrick MacQueen), and approximately thirty ratings. They started work in the morning and, bar emergencies, went home at night. They lived in scattered rented rooms in the over-packed city, and only a few had wives. A good percentage of them were maritimers, but they came from across the country.

They were unpromising as an elite.