67

“Speaking of Italy, the last king of the Ostrogoths was named Teia,” said the captain, expounding on one of his favourite themes. “He was slain at the foot of Mount Vesuvius. It was the last act of their doom-laden history.”

They were sitting around a low table, in front of the brick fireplace of the seagoing officer’s club, named the Crow’s Nest. It was located on the top floor of an old warehouse on Water Street in St. John’s, Newfoundland. It had a long bar with a brass foot rail; crests of warships adorned the walls. The allies had commenced the invasion of Sicily after clearing the Afrika Corps out of Tunisia. Patrick had seen a terminal building in Halifax full of those prisoners. White-helmeted American military police, holding tommy guns, had forced them all to squat on the concrete floor, holding up their unbuttoned pants so they couldn’t run away. The military police had seemed to outnumber the prisoners, which offended his sense of noblesse oblige.

“The Vandals were kings of Tunisia,” ventured Patrick. He tasted his rum and Coke, then placed the glass on the table. The captain flashed one of his crystal glances, then shrouded his eyes again. “I see that we have a scholar with us,” he commented.

The first lieutenant took the captain’s empty glass to the bar. “A double rum and Coke,” he ordered.

“Who were the Vikings?” asked Sub-lieutenant Rockwood. That question pleased the captain, and he fired a short round of appreciative chuckles.

“The Vikings weren’t a tribe,” he answered, accepting a new tinkling glass from the first lieutenant. “They were adventurers who took to the sea. They founded kingdoms of their own—they even conquered Sicily before Georgie Patton was ever thought of.”

“I think that the West Nova Scotia Regiment is there now,” said Patrick MacQueen. “That is my brother’s regiment.”

The captain kept his eyes hooded, but he looked at Sub-lieutenant MacQueen for a long, silent moment. Some officers at the bar were laughing, but there was no jukebox here. Coals of a fire glowed in the stone grate and the air was heavy with cigarette smoke. Patrick concentrated on the fire and swore to keep his mouth shut. He felt the appraising look, and he flushed. The first lieutenant looked at his wristwatch.

“You’ll be late for Captain D’s dinner, sir,” said the first lieutenant. The captain stretched his legs, rose to his feet, and drained his glass.

“Stay sober, MacQueen,” admonished the captain. He wiped his beard and grinned, looking like a version of Mephistopheles. The two sub-lieutenants rose to their feet. The first lieutenant accompanied the captain to a row of coat hangers, topped by a shelf of salty naval caps. They folded their blue Burberrys over their arms, jammed their caps onto their heads, and pulled one glove onto the left hand. The first lieutenant opened the door and they proceeded down the long stairway outside, into blacked-out St. John’s. It was still early in the evening; the light of the sun lingered for a long time in the summer.

The HMCS Fleur-de-Lis was berthed across the harbour, at the jetties on the south side. The harbour itself was not large, and it was completely surrounded by hills that tapered sharply up to cliffs at the entrance. On the top of one cliff stood a stone tower, and at the bottom of the other were gun emplacements and the Port War Signals Station. A boon defence anti-submarine net closed the mouth of the harbour. The Royal Canadian Navy had appropriated this waterfront, whereas the Royal Navy and the Americans used a base across the Avalon Peninsula, at Argentia. Captain D. M. Pope, or “Captain D” as he was known, was an Englishman. His office was responsible for the ships, whereas the shore establishment came under the chief of staff. Both of these gentlemen reported to the flag officer Newfoundland Command, who was a commodore first class. His boss was the admiral in Halifax, which was a different country; but they all had the same sovereign, except for the Americans, of course—but they were busy in the Pacific.

“What do we do now?” asked Sub-lieutenant Rockwood.

“I’m going for a walk,” answered Patrick MacQueen. “My grandmother was born here and I’d like to look around. Want to come?”

Sub-lieutenant Rockwood hesitated. The national trait of feeling insecure near any non-conformist was strong in him, and he didn’t want to get too friendly until the captain showed his hand. He felt edgy in Patrick’s presence and he decided to play it safe.

“Nah,” said Sub-lieutenant Rockwood. “I think I’ll just hang around here for a while, then mebbe catch the duty boat back to the ship.”

“Suit yourself,” said Patrick. “I’ll see you later.” He was quite aware of his companion’s misgivings, but he did not know the answer himself. He walked up the hill past the war memorial, then in front of the naval police, or shore patrol, headquarters to the Newfoundland Hotel. He then angled along Military Road and past the Doric-columned Colonial Building, to the cathedral. This had a great stone arch in front; it sat on the highest hill. From here he could look down at the harbour sitting like a mountain lake in the long shadow cast from the hills against the setting sun. It was an old city and not in very good repair. Seagulls swarmed over the harbour like the pigeons of Venice, and small craft plied back and forth across its surface. The smells were all those of the sea, mingled with the smoke of coal fires and a nearby lilac bush.

I should be working on my gunnery logs, thought Patrick. Two sailors crossed the street to avoid saluting him, and they averted their eyes. It was getting chilly, and Patrick pulled on his Burberry. That way the sailors couldn’t detect his lowly rank. He looked at the great cathedral, a towering tribute to faith. Men fear and believe because the alternative is incomprehensible, thought Patrick MacQueen.

He turned and started down the steep hill towards his ship.