The Broken Sword

The following morning, MacQueen’s staff assembled in his office. Hemming had arranged chairs and ashtrays, and the air was already blue when he arrived. Everyone rose, and he waved them back to their seats. Hemming sat at the side of the desk to take notes, and Petty Officer Low stood, with his cutlass belted around his large girth, at the other side. No one upstaged the PO.

“Gentlemen,” commenced MacQueen, “this is merely a preliminary meeting to let you know that we will be assuming the duties of the shore patrol. This is specialized work and I will have to assign some of you on a permanent basis, or as permanent as we can speak of these days.”

“Timmons, I hate to lose you, but you will be promoted to acting leading seaman and will be in charge of the ratings assigned to the patrol and of the police vans. We’ll only need one, I think, and the other can be standby. There will also be two Jeeps which can be jointly utilized by the guard and the patrol, as there always seems to be a shortage of these. All patrol vehicles will be driven by naval personnel, so pick your men accordingly. That gives you an extra man in emergencies. Each watch officer of the guard will double as patrol officer when necessary, deputized by me. All records and equipment will be transferred here, and the cellblock will be reopened. Petty Officer Low will remain with the guard and have only nominal disciplinary authority over the patrol. The permanent patrol will find digs outside the barracks and will be paid accordingly.”

The commissioner of the Civilian Guard raised a hand. “Will this affect us in any way, sir?”

“Closer coordination and more available transport. The patrol works closely with the civilian authorities ashore, the CID, the constabulary, as well as the Newfoundland Rangers outside St. John’s. So, everything will tighten up—as it should, God knows.”

“Not much, I’m afraid. You should get down to their HQ this morning and check that out. Try and learn as much as you can, especially of their record-keeping processes and the general routine of their watches. But first, submit to me a list of the men you would like, so the petty officer can make a choice. We can’t strip the guard.”

“I’ll have to choose a new one. Recommend who you wish and we’ll check them on parade. You know my requirements.”

Following this meeting, MacQueen called Commander Marchand and reported on the steps taken.

“What the hell are you talking about MacQueen?” asked the commander, obviously irritated. “I haven’t been informed of any of this.”

MacQueen drew in his breath then slowly exhaled. “Sorry, sir, Captain D issued verbal instructions to me and Commander Kyley yesterday.”

“That’s your business—the barracks are my business. Whatever goes on here is under my command, understand? You’d better submit all of this in writing and I’ll consider it. That’s an order!” He hung up abruptly.

MacQueen cursed the commander as a fat bastard and dialed Commander Kyley. He reported once more on the steps he had taken.

“That sounds like a good start, m’boy,” answered the staff officer shore patrols. “We’ll be out of here in a few days, so you will need a truck for our files and documents. Anything you don’t want will be returned to Naval Stores.”

“Commander Marchand is sending up flak, sir. He feels that he should have been consulted.”

“Really! One thing you must learn, m’boy, is that no one wins an argument against a cop. I’ll have Captain Pope get onto him immediately. Don’t worry about it. You’ll have to handle this type of thing by yourself shortly. Naval headquarters will soon be disbanded altogether.”

MacQueen replaced the receiver slowly. That pig Marchand was looming more and more as a problem—and a rocket from the captain wouldn’t improve his humour one bit. Captain Purcell in Ottawa was a form of insurance, but only for a few weeks at best. Unless he won his election and was appointed naval minister.

Hemming came in with some mail and other papers. “There’s a signal for you from Ottawa, sir.”

Lieut. P. MacQueen HMCS Avalon Nfld.

Naval Service Headquarters, Ottawa, Canada Arr’d great shape stop thanks for disgusting send off stop back in the battle stop daddy fine stop look after Brooklyn Boys stop. Dave.

Dave? He had never used his first name, no matter how deep in his cups. He would be demobilized—a civilian—before running in the elections. He would also be a civilian minister. MacQueen smiled. He found it hard to imagine.

There was also a letter from his mother. He hadn’t thought of her for days. It read:

My dear son,

I have just come in from the garden and had to write to tell you how beautiful it all is. The blooms are incredible this year. A celebration of the end of this terrible war. We all hope and pray to see you home safe and sound soon.

Gramp asked me to tell you that Caesar is fine and just waiting for you to saddle and exercise him.

There is no word from your father but I hear John should be coming home soon also. Helen is a lovely girl and waits for him eagerly.

One cannot say much on these airgraphs! Do they still censor them really? There is no official word but I think we lost many of our belongings on the Lady Hawkins. They say she was sunk over a year ago.

All my love and do write.

Mother

Mother and her gardens, he thought affectionately, with all her ideas on fertility and organic growth. She even compared the monarchy to the blossom on a rose bush once—which wasn’t a bad image when one thought of all the thorns under the blooms. The thought of losing all their furniture and things made the war more personal. But he felt no particular animosity towards the enemy seamen. They weren’t the “enemy” any longer, he reminded himself.

He looked out of his office window at the leaden sky, smiled ruefully as memories of Bermuda drifted to the surface of his mind, and put the letter in his pocket.

“Hemming,” he called. “I’m expecting a call from Commander Marchand. Please take the message and call my car. I haven’t an escort. Is anyone available?”

MacQueen glanced at Hemming with a smile. He would like to take him, but he was dressed in only his naval rig, without sidearms or gaiters. “Never mind, I’ll go solo. Just call the car.”

He headed for the dockyard, where he initialled the corporal’s logbook and inspected the guardhouse. “We haven’t seen you around for a while, sir,” said the corporal. MacQueen looked around the small quarters with the double-deck bunks and pin-up girls. Betty Grable’s ass always loomed large. The off-duty sentries were sleeping.

They tramped around the dockyard together, MacQueen returning frequent salutes. He checked each sentry’s rifle and equipment. MacQueen always enjoyed doing the rounds, especially unexpected ones such as this.

“MacDonell, sir,” was the prompt reply. “I joined the guard about three months ago.”

“I don’t mind this work, sir. I guess it isn’t as exciting out there as it used to be. Maybe the Pacific?”

Someone grabbed MacQueen’s arm from behind. “MacQueen, you ol’ son-of-a-bitch! Christ, I haven’t seen you for years! What the hell are you doing?”

MacQueen swung around to look at Fred Seaton, a classmate from Naval College. He had a crumpled seagoing cap on the back of his blond head and his Burberry was unbuttoned and flapping. He had some papers under his arm.

“Hello, Freddie,” answered MacQueen, with a smile. “What are you doing here?”

“That old tub down at the jetty.” He pointed carelessly. “That’s home sweet home. C’mon aboard and have a drink, old buddy, the sun’s over the yardarm.”

MacQueen turned to MacDonell standing stiffly beside him. “Tell my driver to wait, Corporal. I want to talk to you at the barracks.”

“What’s all this? ‘Tell my car to wait’? What are you, old buddy, an admiral or something?”

MacQueen laughed, and they walked down the jetty to the old Flower-class corvette. “Used to be in one of these m’self,” said MacQueen as they walked up the gangway and saluted the quarterdeck. “The smell’s the same.”

“C’mon below. I’m all alone on this baby. We’re in for repairs and everyone has fucked off for leave except me and a subby. It’s good to see you. Jesus, what a bore this place is! Haven’t been laid for months.”

They descended the companionway and into the small wardroom. Seaton rang for the steward and took MacQueen’s cap and coat and flung them onto a chair that was chained to the deck. There was an erratic pile of papers on a bolted-down table, and Freddie dumped them elsewhere in disgust.

“Christ, those bastards in Naval Stores want everything in fuckin’ quadruplicate. Even for bloody bum wad! I told ’em we hardly needed it. We could wipe our arses with all this damn paper. What’ll you have?”

“Bullshit, MacQueen. I remember you at Royal Roads! What a thirst. Jesus! C’mon, let’s tie one on and go get laid. You know your way around here. Christ, you’ve even got a car!”

“Easy, old friend. Let’s just talk for a while. I want to catch up on some of the news. Never see much of you seagoing types anymore.”

“The Crow’s Nest is crawling with us, only we aren’t much interested in talk.” He laughed and lit a cigarette then passed them to MacQueen.

MacQueen took one and accepted a light. The steward placed the drinks on the table. “Cheers, ol’ cock,” trumpeted Seaton. “Here’s to the girl who lives on the hill and all that, y’know.”

MacQueen raised his glass, and they drank. He shuddered slightly as the navy rum coursed down his esophagus and warmed his stomach.

“Pretty much the same. Never changes. Those English Wrens are pretty lofty but hot as hell once you get ’em down. They talk about ‘colonials’ but when you spread their legs they can cuss with the best of us.” He drank again and cleared another pile of papers for MacQueen’s drink to be set down. “What a pile of shit!”

“Yep. What is it, ol’ buddy? Coming up on four fuckin’ years? Started in those old four-stacker destroyers and ended up in this! Not much improvement, believe me. Anyway, it’s all over, or will be soon. Hell on it all!”

“Right! Numero Uno, that’s me. Number One of this old bucket—and maybe skipper soon, who knows? Big deal, eh. No car and driver, just a sorry seagoing soul walkin’ around.”

“He tried to make gentlemen out of us! Well, some of us were and some weren’t, I guess. You can’t change that, Cappy or no fuckin’ Cappy. Some of the boys have gone. Hell, it’s a matter of luck. I guess I’ve been lucky but shit, what’s next? Maybe they were the lucky ones. I don’t know and don’t give a fuck.”

“Go? Where the hell are you going, MacQueen? Sit down and have a drink! Christ, you wanted to talk, well we’re talking! The fuckin’ war’s over. Drop the bullshit and let’s have a ball.”

God, how far away it all seemed to MacQueen. The rollicking attitude of these fellows who’d won the battle, aged eighteen years, and were still innocent. Even with all their drinking and screwing they were boys. Killers too, but that was incidental.

“Why don’t you come to the mess tomorrow night for dinner? Better still, there’s an army dance Saturday. I’ll fix you up with a date and we can all go together.”

“It will be like the old days. I remember you were sweet on some old girl—really clobbered for that one. What was her name? Bernie …?”

“Oh, Bernice. She married that silly shit in our division—can’t think of his name. Probably knocked her up. Have another before you go.”

“Six on Saturday? Sure thing. Army dance, eh? Christ, what the hell are the army doing ’round here? I’m going to have another shot and hit the sack. So long, ol’ boy.”

MacQueen saluted the quartermaster and walked down the gangway. His car was waiting on the jetty. Rodney opened the door for him and they headed towards the barracks for lunch.

That afternoon MacQueen walked to his office and slumped behind his desk. He thought of the German U-boat that had surrendered recently. The guard had been responsible for security when it was brought into Bay Bulls and the crew transferred for shipment to Canada. How young they were, those killers of the deep. The captain had been twenty-seven and the youngest crewman only sixteen. They had sunk six ships on that one voyage of eighty-four days. He had breakfasted with the officers—polite fellows with good manners. Somehow it had seemed even more sinister that way.

Well, he thought, standing up and looking out the window at the traffic of the main gate, old wars bring new battles. His interest in the Newfoundland political situation stemmed from ideas that had slowly taken shape since his arrival. He was no political scientist, but he knew that Newfoundland couldn’t support all the democratic trappings of old and remain independent. Control had to be as tight and vigorous as he ran the guard. Joining with Canada or the United States was surely a betrayal of their heritage—and why should they? Sovereignty should not have a price; he sympathized with the Newfoundlanders who wanted to fight for it.

But then he thought of LaRosa’s words about successful mercenaries. Was that really the base of his interest—to influence history and reap the rewards? He couldn’t honestly answer that question. The idea of the crown was surely not academic. Economics hardly entered his head.

The telephone jangled, and he jumped. “MacQueen here,” he answered abruptly. It was Commander Marchand.

“MacQueen, I’ve had a call from Captain D and everything is squared away. I just wish that you would keep me in the picture and not spring surprises on me. I’m easy to get along with as long as I know what’s going on. Do I make myself clear?”

“It was personal, sir, but I thought you’d like to know. He seems ready for the fray.”

“You mean the elections, of course. Well I’m glad he’s in trim. He was looking rather poorly. Now let’s keep coordinated, right?”

He hung up and smiled. Hemming knocked. “MacDonell, the corporal of the dockyard guard to see you, sir.”

MacQueen collected his thoughts. “In a moment, Hemming. Did the PO submit a list of prospective escorts yet?”

MacQueen searched for a moment and found the pencil-scrawled list. MacDonell was not on it.

Ordinary Seaman Robert MacDonell had showered, cleaned his boots, and donned his best rig. The square collar was just slightly faded, but all else was regulation and gleaming. He stood at attention with his cap off.

The boy seated himself, sitting erect and leaning forward, his cap dangling in his hand.

“Frankly, Timmons is going to the shore patrol and I require a new escort. Would you be interested in the job?”

“It’s not an ordinary job. You are on parade all of the time. Also, you will be with me a lot and, despite this, you must always be correct. Sometimes this is hard, as I’m not always on parade. Do you understand?”

“The job is covered by naval regulations and has certain advantages. I don’t know why they think guard officers so precious, but maybe they didn’t envisage anything quite this extensive.”

MacDonell looked politely at MacQueen, obviously not comprehending a word. MacQueen knew the sensation when things happen suddenly and one shuts off. A matter of overloaded circuits, or something.

“Good man. Give it to Hemming and he will refer it to your watch officer.” The boy stood erect. “That will be all then. We’ll see you first thing tomorrow morning. Hemming will brief you on the routine, and I am glad to have you with me.”

MacDonell’s face was beaming as he left the office to report to Hemming and get his instructions.

Checking his appointment book, he noted: Mary: 6 p.m. for O’Briens. It was now 1600. He decided to wrap up and head for home and a bath. Hemming knew how to handle any queries. “The officer of the guard is on rounds,” he announced. No one could check that. The evening promised to be a busy one.