89

It was late in the morning when Petty Officer Low opened one bloodshot eye and glanced at an unkind world. His head pounded, his mouth was parched, and his stomach was queasy. He was in the bottom of a double-deck bunk in a well-scrubbed room. The sunlight through the window made him blink. Standing at the foot of the bunk was an RCAF staff sergeant holding some papers, accompanied by his friend of the night before. Low rose on one elbow and tried to smile.

“Petty Officer Low?” asked the staff sergeant. “We’ve had some trouble trying to locate you. You’ll have to hurry. The flight for Ottawa is in an hour and the body is already loaded aboard.”

Low painfully swung his feet to the floor with a groan. “Is there any chance of a beer, Staff?” he groaned.

“We’ll try and fix you up pronto. Sergeant Williams here will see to a wash-up for you and get you to the flight. If you hurry you’ll have time for a quick one.” He stalked off, leaving the other NCO to get the petty officer activated.

“Quite a night,” commented Williams cheerfully.

“Lord. And I thought the navy knew how to drink!” answered the petty officer sadly, pulling on his boots with hands that shook violently. “To hell on a wash, let’s get a drink somewhere.”

They walked to the mess, where the staff had left instructions to open the bar for them. Low still staggered slightly and hadn’t the will to pull himself together. He produced a ten-dollar bill and requested a whisky—a very large whisky—and a beer. The whisky glass was half-filled, and he took it in both hands and poured it down. He then stood tensely with eyes closed, shook violently, and then reached for the beer to chase it with. Colour began to return to his face and his shaking hands gradually quieted. His back straightened, and he smiled. “The hair of the dog!” he proclaimed. “The only medicine.”

The younger air force man watched this performance with an uncertain fascination. “It sure works with you,” he commented.

“Now I’ll have a regular double and be fit as a fiddle,” added the petty officer, growing jauntier by the minute.

They reached the hangar just in time for him to climb into the bomber in high spirits. With a wave from Low, they closed the hatch and were shortly in the air, towards Ottawa.

By some strange rule, St. John’s is one and one-half hours ahead of Ottawa in the time zones. MacQueen had just finished lunch in the mess and planned to attend some of the honour guard’s drill that afternoon, as it would be the last one before the full ceremonial tomorrow. He called Rowntree and received the usual prompt reply. He outlined his talk with LaRosa of the previous day.

“Bloody marvellous!” exclaimed the major. “We’ve got ’em by the short and curlies. There’s nothing they can do.”

“Where is Winterwood?” asked MacQueen.

“Over in Corner Brook, I think, or somewhere on the west coast. The bastard can stay there, as far as I’m concerned.”

“How are things from your end?”

“Fine. My boys are raring to go—they’re gentle but firm. They don’t know what it’s all about and don’t give a damn. It’s action that the poor bods want.”

“And Blunt?”

“Nervous, but they’ve been working hard. He’ll be all right, don’t worry. He isn’t too healthy, I understand, but he’s got guts. What the hell, ol’ boy, he’s going to be a chief of state tomorrow! That’d buoy anyone up!”

“I’ll get with my troops. Can’t have them dropping their rifles!”

“Righto. We’ll coordinate watches later. Should we get together?”

“It might be touchy. The CID suspects something, I think.”

“Never mind it then. Good luck.”

MacQueen walked through the wardroom with a wave to MacDwine and Commander Marchand, and climbed the steps to the parade square. The band was present for the dress rehearsal and the gunner’s mate had the situation well in hand. MacQueen had spent the morning arranging draft lists of the guards who were to be returned to Canada for reposting or demobilization, and he realized sadly that this would be the last ceremonial of the unit that he had spent so much time perfecting. MacDonell joined him, and the gunner’s mate saluted.

“Any problems, Chief?” asked MacQueen.

“No, sir. Even a couple of stokers that we requisitioned are getting into the spirit of things! Too bad we have to break ’em up right after.”

“That’s life, I guess. I wish you could train some of my civilian guard!”

“The Volksstürm? Not bloody likely, sir. Anyway, I’ll be going soon m’self.”

The petty officer was sound asleep when the plane touched down at Ottawa. It had been a short flight, and he was still feeling euphoric as he clambered down the aluminum ladder and brushed at his uniform in a vain attempt to make it presentable. His duffle bag was thrown down to him. A naval Jeep driven by a shore patrol rating swerved onto the runway and came to a stop.

“You Petty Officer Low?” asked the patrolman.

“That’s right, m’lad,” answered the petty officer.

“Is the box with you?”

“It’s in the plane.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

“Jump in and we’ll take you to the duty officer.”

The air felt good, but he rubbed his beard apprehensively. “Can I get a shave first?”

“This’ll only take a minute. Then you’re on your own.”

That was music to the petty officer’s ears. He still had over seventy-five dollars and would probably be getting more shortly. They would give him a ticket to Vancouver and some leave. The world looked pretty good, all right. Damn that letter he had promised to deliver! At least it shouldn’t take too long.

The formalities were a bit more complicated than anticipated, and he began to deteriorate rapidly under the strain. Finally, the box containing Lieutenant Cossit’s body was lowered onto a truck and signed for.

“Your papers will probably be here in a day or so, Petty Officer,” said the duty officer. “In the meantime, I’ll give you a pass until Thursday. You can bunk at the barracks if you wish. I know you had a tough trip, but for God’s sake get cleaned up before you go ashore.”

The petty officer immediately went to the chiefs’ and POs’ mess and drank a few beers to sustain him through a shower and shave. He then returned for a few more before heading downtown to try and contact Captain Purcell.

The day prior to the coup proceeded fitfully for MacQueen. Everything seemed disjointed…his routine seemed to ebb and flow sporadically as he kept searching his mind impatiently for anything that might have been overlooked. He chatted with Dr. Wolff for a short time, exhibiting such nervousness that the doctor gave him some sleeping tablets and recommended an early night. MacQueen put the tablets in his pocket and returned to his office, rustling through some papers and dictating the daily orders. Espery arrived to shave the prisoner, then entered to ask if anything further was needed.

“I’m coming home for supper,” said MacQueen. “Just something light. The doctor gave me a couple of pills to take. I’ve been a bit jumpy.”

“Any wonder,” replied Espery. “I have your best uniform all pressed and everything is ready for your parade tomorrow.”

“That’s a good chap. Win or lose, we must look our best.” MacQueen suddenly recalled speaking briefly with an ascendancy family in Ireland at the reception for the horse show. They had raised hunters in Kildare. The charming old lady he had spoken with had proudly told of her son, who had been serving with the British army in Ethiopia. Apparently, they had cornered an Italian cavalry regiment in a vast ravine where they had pitched their tents. The British trained their heavy guns then sent an emissary to demand surrender. The Italians refused, struck their tents, and, in their best uniforms, charged down the ravine on horseback. They were cut to pieces.

MacQueen repeated the story to Espery, who replied, “Magnificent, but is it war?”

“Is that comment from the Crimea?” asked MacQueen.

“The Charge of the Light Brigade.” Espery grinned.

“You never cease to amaze me, Espery. Have Rodney drive you back and I’ll be there in an hour or so.”

He gazed idly at the large chart of the Canadian naval base on the wall. Such a monumental effort for a few years of life. He thought of the hundreds of bases stretching around the world that would soon be dismantled. What did it matter if Marchand and MacDwine made off with some loot? Anyway, what would the new Newfoundland government have to say about these bases on its soil? He felt that Rowntree would want to keep them, if he had a say in the matter. And what has happened to the petty officer with his note for Captain Purcell? Was the silence ominous, or encouraging? There was also Mary to consider. He didn’t know what to do about her either.

She had warned them of LaRosa, so her outburst at the hotel hadn’t turned her against the plan entirely. MacQueen began to pace his office as though it was the quarterdeck.

“Are you nervous about tomorrow, sir?” asked Hemming, opening the door to place a stencil on his desk for MacQueen’s signature.

“What do you know about tomorrow?” asked MacQueen sharply.

“Only the parade, sir,” replied Hemming in surprise.

“Oh, that? I’m sorry. No, that doesn’t worry me much. The guard will be fine. Only, I’m planning a security exercise at the same time and I don’t want word of it to leak out before we give the word. It will commence at noon sharp, at the sound of the noon gun. I’ll want the barrack guard doubled at the gates and along the fences.”

Hemming looked at him in bewilderment. “Won’t that muck up the celebrations, sir?”

“Quite the contrary, Hemming; it’ll assure that they proceed without any interruption. So, the present watch on duty will have to carry this out, as they won’t be relieved until the honour guard is dismissed at approximately 1500 hours tomorrow. No one will enter or leave for those three hours, and no telephone calls except security ones. Everything will be blanked during the time the admiral and the governor are aboard. This is top secret, and only you know of it. If it leaks I’ll know who to blame.”

Hemming visibly winced. “It won’t leak, sir.”

MacQueen gave him a slight slap on the shoulder. “I’m sure it won’t,” he smiled, “but prepare the orders and whatnot for tomorrow. The duty officer will have to know early. Who is he?”

“Sub-Lieutenant Daly, sir.”

“Good. He will stand by in the barracks here from noon on, in case I get called away, or something.”

“What about the civilian guards, sir?”

“Have the civilian guard commander in my office tomorrow morning at ten. Also, the doctor should be standing by, in case any guard faints, or whatever. The shore patrol will man the wagon and have it parked nearby, along with my car and the commissioner’s Jeep, as well as the duty officer’s vehicle. Wash them and line ’em up by the civilian building across the road, and tell the drivers to look smart.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The guard of honour will eat box lunches somewhere around the officers’ quarters. Once the brass have left they will march to the drill hall, return the gunner’s mate’s equipment, and trucks will be there to take them to their areas. It will be the last trip for many of them.”

“Yes, sir. We’ve been taking on a lot of demobbed veterans.”

“I know. As long as we keep paying them off they’ll be okay, but we’d better not lay ’em off before the base is empty.”

Mercenaries, thought MacQueen in a brief flash, and who could blame them? He dismissed the thought abruptly.

“You, Hemming, are to remain here the entire time. Have lunch or whatever you want sent in, but don’t stir out of here for anything, understand? Our prisoner is important, and everything centres on you. You can have messengers, or whatever you want, but don’t leave this post.”

“Sounds like an exciting day, sir!”

How right you are, m’lad, thought MacQueen, and it might just be our last.

He dismissed Hemming and dialed Rowntree’s number.

“Hello, old boy,” answered the cheery voice. “We’re all set, and I can’t see a chance of failure as long as the governor signs on the dotted line. My boys are keen as mustard, and I feel that the constabulary are benign. Don’t know about the CID, but they haven’t the manpower to interfere anyway. How are you doing?”

“Everything is okay so far,” said MacQueen. “No word from the petty officer and our prisoner is being positively saintly. The security exercise is scheduled for noon, so nothing will move in the base for three hours, which should give you enough time. We’d better have a code word so that I’ll know if you call, as no others will be accepted.”

“That’s a good idea. How about CARIBOU?”

“Your national beast—a good choice.”

“We’re writing history, old boy.”

“What is the schedule now?” asked MacQueen.

“Same, really. Brunt and his Cabinet arrive at the Colonial Building shortly after noon. My boys will be there, rounding up a crowd and carrying placards. Brunt will give a speech from the steps, then he will declare the new government and state that we are proceeding to get the governor’s signature. I’ll have a band there and the others will give speeches while Brunt and I arrive at your main gate in one car. You can direct us to the building, and hopefully Goodman will have the governor in a room for a signature. Then his dinner can proceed and we return to take over the government. The commissioners then will be released and everything returns to normal…except we’ll be in command!”

“Then I release my ‘guests’ with a royal salute.”

“Quite so. Clean and bloodless.”

“Well, I’m for home and bed,” replied MacQueen, feeling drained and numb. Why wasn’t he exhilarated, he wondered?

“Good idea. I’ll call there if necessary.”

MacQueen hung up and asked MacDonell to call his car. They drove quietly to his house, and he told them to pick him up at 0830. Espery had a large drink and a light supper ready. MacQueen took two of the pills after eating and started for his bedroom.

“Dream of the Hall of the Kings,” said Espery.

“That is a curious good night,” commented MacQueen.

“You will understand by morning,” answered Espery, with a smile on his faun-like face.