78

MacQueen developed a love for entering the harbour of St. John’s. He felt it had a theatrical quality. The towering granite cliffs seem to open and welcome one through the Narrows and into the harbour, shaped like a bowl. The twin spires of the Roman Catholic cathedral and the Newfoundland Hotel dominate the view of the city.

The south-side jetties across from the town were usually filled with banks of corvettes three deep. Berthed in the middle of the harbour, secured bow to stem, were damaged merchant ships and other assorted craft. Small harbour craft or “bum boats” chugged in all directions as seagulls swooped for meals and screamed at one another in an endless cacophony.

The Flag Officer Newfoundland, or FONF, had been a very important man at the height of the Battle of the Atlantic. His offices were in the naval headquarters building, a low, flat structure just behind the Newfoundland Hotel. There he could look out through the Narrows to the unending horizon and watch his escort groups sailing for their rendezvous or returning from the wars.

The Royal Canadian Naval Base sprawled indiscriminately throughout the city, spilling over the south side and out to the Port War Signal Station at the mouth of the harbour. Armament depots; oil tank farms; dockyards; hospitals; barracks; dry docks—all of the establishments necessary to keep a fleet at sea were located here, as well as radio stations and ancillary establishments as far along the coast as Bay Bulls.

The Americans also had an army base, called Fort Pepperrell, and the Canadian Army and RCAF had barracks, anti-aircraft establishments, and airfields scattered throughout the land. Newfoundland had been considered a prime target of the German High Seas Fleet based in Norway. A glance at any map shows its strategic location, most especially as a base for midocean convoy escorts.

By l945, however, all of this was beginning to wind down. Volunteers were being solicited for the Pacific War and the native sons of Newfoundland were gradually returning and being demobilized. Such an establishment cannot, of course, be forsaken quickly. As the infrastructure was being drained away, the duties of the Port Security Guard were becoming magnified. They were not so much anti-subversive guards now, but instead were charged with protecting the vast quantity of material and equipment from theft and vandalism.

Newfoundland was hardly a rich country and the prospects for her returning soldiers were not bright. Some were absorbed into the Civilian Guard, but many were idle, and not a few were bloody-minded. The “Commission of Government,” chaired by the British governor and composed of three Newfoundlanders and three Brits, merely kept the wheels turning. Newfoundland had previously been a proud dominion, but financial troubles in the ’30s had reduced her to these sad straits. Confederation with Canada, joining the United States, or a return to independence were the alternatives. A politician named Joe Winterwood was stirring the pot vigorously, much to the dismay of the prominent merchant and professional families located in St. John’s. He claimed to be a nationalist, but argued that Newfoundland was too small to thrive on its own. He was busily working to convince the Newfoundlanders of the merits of being enfolded by Canada. There would soon be a referendum for the people to decide, but rumour had it the proceedings were going to be less than honourable.

Every city was shabby in l945, but St. John’s seemed beyond repair now, despite the income derived from the military base. Its waterfront was dilapidated; Water Street was a terror of broken cobblestones; plumbing was bad; telephone service was worse; and most of the buildings were firetraps. The people’s spirit was indomitable, but they were confused and the Canadian presence was beginning to be resented. Canadians were referred to as “Upalongs”, and the train to Port aux Basque and then to Sydney was called the “Foreign Express”.

In the midst of all this sat the Canadian establishment, particularly the barracks of the base in St. John’s, HMCS Avalon. It was generally called “Buckmaster’s Field” with more rude interpretations if one replaced the first letter.

To reach Buckmaster’s Field from the harbour or dockyard one had to climb a very steep hill. The barracks were surrounded by barbed wire and patrolled by sentries; the area within was a world unto itself. By agreement, the Canadians hired as many local personnel as possible—drivers, watchmen, etc., but they were peripheral. The barracks were navy property, with increasing spit and polish as the war waned.

Lieutenant Patrick MacQueen, RCNVR, was now officer in command of the Port Security Guard, and was always assured of a smart salute when his staff car entered the barracks’ gate. His initial shame and hatred for the post had worn away, and he had come to embrace his new duty after realizing it was the very thing he was best at: whipping men into shape. Just to the right of the gate were his offices, a cellblock, and other rooms necessary for the administration of his establishment. On the left were the civilian offices, where aspirants were screened and hired or fired. Next to these was the laundry. Row upon row of double-decked barracks led to the drill hall and parade square, flanked by the three-storey administration building. Nearby were also the chapel, maintenance offices, YMCA WRNS quarters, and so on.

Straight down from the gate were the officers’ quarters and the wardroom, already festive in preparation for the mess dinner. Lieutenant MacQueen quickly changed his collar in a cabin in the quarters, adjusted the black bow tie, and hastened across to the bar for a quick rum before everything was called to order. He noticed one of the guard Jeeps parked outside. The sub-lieutenant on duty was just finishing a quick meal. They met at the door.

“Good evening, sir,” said the sub-lieutenant, straightening and saluting. He was dressed in a duffle coat against the night chill and accompanied by his escort, a young ordinary seaman, all spatted and armed with a Webley .45.

“Evening,” replied MacQueen. “All in order?”

“Seems to be, sir. It’s going to be quite a party!”

“Yes? Well don’t let me keep you.”

MacQueen left his cap and gloves on a shelf and entered the bar. It was brightly lit and painted the usual repellent green, and the decibels of sound were beginning to rise from the assorted personnel—Wren officers and a mixture of other specialists, administrative staff, and whosoever sported gold braid on their cuff. There were very few seagoing officers present; this was not their party.

“Hello, luv,” said Manie, a Wren sub-lieutenant. She grinned at MacQueen with a puckish look as she approached him. “What has our hero been up to today?”

“Double rum and coke,” said MacQueen to the steward. “You look as beautiful as ever.”

“I wish you meant that, lover.”

He looked towards the small knot of officers surrounding Captain David Purcell, RCNVR, OBE.

“I hear he has the biggest cock in the navy!” Manie whispered with a giggle.

“Don’t you know?” He passed two mess tickets to the steward and tasted his drink.

“I’ll kill you, MacQueen! C’mon, drink up and join me.”

“You’re way ahead, Manie. Pardon me, I’ll talk to you later.” He walked over to the captain’s group and was greeted warmly.

“Here’s the boss of the Brooklyn Boys. How are you, m’lad? Glad you could come tonight. You know my successor. Commander Marchand?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, sir,” answered MacQueen, shaking the new CO’s soft hand. “Congratulations, Commander—on your promotion and appointment.”

He looked at the pudgy figure with the three new wavy stripes on his sleeve, disguising his distaste with a wide smile and raised glass. “Let me buy you a drink to celebrate?”

The commander drained his glass and passed the empty to MacQueen. “Thank you. Rum and ginger is fine for me. How about you, sir?”

“If the guard is buying, I’m with you,” said the captain, passing his glass.

MacQueen returned to the bar and ordered three doubles.

“Buttering up the new brass?” asked Manie.

MacQueen raised an eyebrow at her. “I don’t think Marchand cares to be buttered. Have one?” he offered.

“Sure.”

“And a single for the lady,” ordered MacQueen. “Ladies don’t drink doubles,” he said, turning to her.

“Bullshit,” answered Manie. “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet, as the song goes.”

“Steady as she goes, old girl.”

He returned to the others. “Cheers,” they chorused as the chief steward called everyone to dinner.

MacQueen breathed a prayer of thanks for the place cards. At least he would be spared Manie’s attentions during dinner. Grace was pronounced, and the assembly sat admid a scraping of chairs and general gaiety. The naval band, stationed outside the building, struck up a waltz, and the white-jacketed stewards commenced serving the soup and wine.

There were three tables extending from the head table, at which sat the captain and commander, flanked by the first lieutenant, the captain’s secretary, and other luminaries of the administrative staff. One of MacQueen’s sub-lieutenants was at the foot of his table, his cherubic face shining above his winged collar. As the youngest officer present, it would be his duty to reply to the toast. On MacQueen’s left was a raucous young Wren officer, and on his right an RNR lieutenant whom he had seen before but had never met. This man had a laconic air, his uniform was rumpled, and his fingers were stained a deep brown.

“My name is LaRosa.” He proffered his hand. “I know you by reputation, and your name intrigues me.”

“My name?” asked MacQueen in surprise.

“Yes. It is based on the old Irish name of MacSuibhne.”

“Really? I thought we were Scot,” answered MacQueen, taking a new interest in his neighbour. “Are you from Ireland?”

“The Irish Free State,” replied LaRosa. “They are neutral but I’m not. Nothing idealistic, just circumstance. LaRosa is a Huguenot name—there have always been refugees.”

“Yes, I suppose so. I was in Dublin for the horse show in forty-three. Went there from Derry for a weekend—great fun.” Although “fun” wasn’t really the word, thought MacQueen to himself as he reflected.

LaRosa broke a bun with deliberation and started to butter it. MacQueen watched this action with remote interest, noting the dull gold of a large seal ring reflecting the overhead lights.

“Do you like horses?” he asked.

LaRosa gave a faint smile. “We used to raise hunters,” he replied, “but no more. I’m not very athletic and prefer more scholarly pursuits despite my apparent seafaring ways. I’m more of a wanderer than a professional sailor. Ulysses and all that sort of thing, y’know.”

MacQueen took a drink of wine, agreed to some inane question posed to him by his Wren neighbour, and then heard Manie emit a shriek of laughter somewhere. He tried to orient himself to his new friend.

“I don’t know much about Greek mythology, although I used to play at it as a boy sometimes.”

“Really? How intriguing! Do many Canadian boys play at Greek mythology? I thought it was cowboys.” LaRosa helped the steward redeem his untouched soup plate.

“I was brought up for a few years in Bermuda,” answered MacQueen, spooning the last of his soup into his mouth. “We had cliffs and beaches, and for some reason it all seemed rather Greek.”

“Your family has an interesting history.” It was a statement, not a question.

“How the devil do you know?” asked MacQueen. “My mother’s family were farmers and my father is a medical officer—hardly earth-shaking.”

LaRosa helped himself to some fish and leaned aside for a refill of his wine glass. He dabbed his lips on a napkin.

“In the old country you stem from a long line of warriors. Professional warriors, that is. Actually, the greatest military house in Ireland in the Middle Ages. United, you could have ruled the country.”

MacQueen could hardly believe his ears. Either he had run into a madman or an ancient troubadour who could sing praises without striking a note. “Well, why didn’t we rule the country?” he asked, feigning objectivity. He signalled for more wine and hoped that Captain Purcell would soon toast the king. He wanted a cigarette badly.

LaRosa shifted his chair and seemed to slump. The half smile played around his mouth. He fidgeted with a package of Lucky Strikes and ignored his meal altogether.

“As I said, you were professionals. You fought for pay. Like the condotierri of Italy, you rose to prominence and power but you were loyal to whoever paid you the king’s shilling. Whether such loyalty is a virtue or whether you should have struck for the big prize is a matter of ethics, I suppose.”

The idea of divided loyalties had been plaguing Patrick. Less than an hour earlier, he had met secretly with a small band of local patriots. They were railing against Joe Winterwood, who was spending massive amounts of money from some unknown source to convince Newfoundlanders to embrace confederation with Canada. Winterwood called himself “the Barrelman”. It was meant as a reference to a sailor in a crow’s nest, but many of these citizens of St. John’s wanted to put him in a barrel and send it over Niagara Falls. They considered him a menace to Newfoundland. They wanted to fight the coming referendum at all costs, and with MacQueen’s help, even stage a coup d’état, if that is what it would take. MacQueen, an officer in the Royal Canadian Navy, had offered to share some of his own ideas with them and sympathized with their desire to protect the sovereignty of their homeland. He was aware of the shifting ground under his feet, and he knew any man in that small, dimly lit back room could have him court-martialled. This new knowledge from LaRosa suddenly put MacQueen’s dilemma in a new light.

Someone tapped on a glass. The captain called, “Gentlemen, the king.” In naval fashion the toast was drunk sitting down. Then the commander rose. “To our wives and sweethearts,” he proposed. The furiously blushing young sub-lieutenant also rose and answered nobly, “May they never meet.”

Cigars and cigarettes were lit, the port was circulated, and the captain commenced his farewell speech. MacQueen applauded and laughed at the right moments, but he didn’t hear a word.

After the speeches, the tables were rapidly cleared away and the serious drinking of the evening commenced. MacQueen lost sight of his dinner companion but was swept up in other gaieties. The piano was trundled into the room, and Lieutenant Jimmy Cossit led the singing, playing his own accompaniment with verve and gusto. Captain Purcell stood near the fireplace, reminiscing and joking as the younger crowd of junior officers vied for the telephone to make dates and call for taxis to take them to the Old Colony Club.

Manie was leaning over the piano, and was soon the sole remaining Wren as the party waxed rougher and more boisterous. The captain discreetly left for his quarters nearby, taking a bottle of rum and some cronies to continue his tall tales. The band had decamped.

The remainder of the barracks was relatively quiet. Only faint strains of song emanated from the rating’s wet canteen.

Later MacQueen found his new friend LaRosa quietly sitting in a back room, reading a book. “Interesting?” he asked, entering and closing the door.

LaRosa looked up and smiled his enigmatic smile. “Glad you found me,” he replied. “Can I order you anything?”

“I’ve really had enough,” answered MacQueen, sitting in a lounge chair and stretching his legs out. “What’s the book?”

“A new account of the Easter Rebellion in Ireland,” LaRosa replied. “It was a tragic business.”

“My mother isn’t a rebel sympathizer,” said MacQueen. “Her mother came from Tipperary—she’s an O’Neill. She is still alive and talks often of the old days.”

“They are only yesterday in Ireland.” LaRosa pressed a buzzer for a steward and lit a cigarette. He offered one to MacQueen, who accepted.

“I suppose there are parallels between that situation and the present one here?” asked MacQueen.

The steward arrived, and LaRosa signed for two drinks, the smoke from his cigarette curling into his face and making him squint. “That’s an interesting point. Are there rebels here?”

MacQueen hesitated. Surely, he thought, an Irishman with obvious experience in such matters could be trusted to be objective. “I’ve spoken to a few Newfoundlanders who aren’t too happy about the way things seem to be drifting,” he replied. “Actually, they were interested in some of my political theories, which I found flattering.”

The steward returned with the drinks, and LaRosa waited until he had closed the door. “Isn’t that rather dangerous? Getting mixed up in other people’s politics, I mean?”

“My father’s mother came from Newfoundland. Anyway, maritimers have always felt an affinity with the people here.”

“That hardly makes you a Newfoundlander.”

“You said we were hereditary soldiers of fortune,” MacQueen said and smiled.

“Touché,” LaRosa said with a laugh, raising his drink. “If that is the answer, then good hunting. But be careful. You are still a Canadian officer.”

“Of course.” MacQueen rose and stood beside a window, looking past his reflection into the dark night. “My mother always talked of ‘organic’ things—she has great faith in natural growth. She abhors revolutions as disrupting to the natural order. My grandmother calls her a counter-revolutionary and accuses her of betraying her Irishness.”

“And you—?”

MacQueen shrugged and returned to his chair. “I side with Mother in such things, I guess. I’m an officer of the king, not a Canadian officer. I’m also against revolutions.”

“What of your political plan?”

MacQueen felt that he was talking too much, but it was a relief to discourse on these subjects to someone intelligent and interested, and apparently not involved.

“It is also counter-revolutionary, really. The real revolution is in that little upstart, Winterwood. I’ve been here for well over two years and know something of the situation. Why can’t these people be left alone to work out their own destiny?”

“According to your plan?” LaRosa pressed the buzzer again.

MacQueen held up his hand. “No more for me, old boy, really. I’m babbling on as it is…you’ll learn all of my secrets.”

LaRosa waved the steward away and lit another cigarette. The room was hot and hazy with smoke. MacQueen’s head was gently spinning; he felt euphorically sleepy.

“Father was a stolid Scot,” MacQueen remarked aimlessly. “He was somewhat of a warrior, which seems odd for a doctor, come to think of it. Anyway, he rarely spoke of aught except Robert Service, and wasn’t very happy in Bermuda’s colonial set up. Mother loved it, and so maybe I got my taste for Ruritanian parade ground stuff there.”

“You’d like to see that here?”

MacQueen slumped farther into his chair and ran a hand through his brown hair. “It is here,” he replied slowly. “That’s the point. It’s subdued, but it exists. It would be a shame to lose it.”

“Then you really feel at home here?”

MacQueen grunted and lifted his head. He peered at LaRosa through the smoke, sitting on the edge of the chesterfield and looking oddly pixyish with the lamp behind his head. “You are a leprechaun, and the answer is yes. Newfoundland is a step back in time, and that’s where I belong.”

LaRosa threw his head back and laughed loudly. “Good lad!” he choked, wiping his eyes and chuckling. “That’s the best reason I’ve heard for a long time, and you have my entire sympathy.”

MacQueen looked up, faintly bewildered at what had caused this outburst. He smiled ruefully and then rose rather unsteadily to his feet, looking at his watch.

“I’ve really got to go,” MacQueen said. “Look, I have a small house near the barracks—my digs. Why not come for dinner tomorrow night? I could meet you here at six.”

LaRosa rose also and clapped a hand to MacQueen’s shoulder. “I’d be delighted,” he replied.

“See you then.” MacQueen opened the door and left him wreathed in the swirl of tobacco smoke, his face still marked by that bewildering smile.

What an attractive young man, LaRosa thought, watching MacQueen’s tall back disappear down the hallway towards the noisy mess. Sensitive and dedicated, rather oddly informed and certainly naïve—or was it idealistic? He had obviously fallen in with some local “vested interests” who wanted to maintain the status quo, probably for economic reasons. After all, the privileged group here had done quite well. Could they find it within themselves to start a revolution? Surely their interest in the young guard officer wasn’t solely based on his political theories.

That boy certainly has a lot of his ancestors’ steel in him, he continued to ruminate. But he also has some of Hamlet’s trait to allow things to become “sicklied o’er with pale casts of thought”. LaRosa finished his glass, took up his book, and turned out the light. A Bohemian in uniform? Maybe, which could be dangerous. He retrieved his cap and gloves from the cloakroom and quietly headed towards his cabin in the adjoining building.

MacQueen went to call for his car when Jimmy Cossit grabbed his arm. “Where y’going, ol’ boy?” he asked. His wet smile and reddened eyes were proof of his night’s dedication to navy rum.

“I’m off home, Jimmy,” said MacQueen with a smile. “It’s a bit noisy around here.”

“Let’s go and get screwed,” burbled Jimmy. “C’mon, don’t be a poop.”

“If you’re talking about getting screwed by one of my guards, the deal’s off, and take care, m’lad. Personally, I don’t give a damn, but you’re heading for trouble.”

“Oh shit, now I get a lecture. What the hell? ‘Try anything once’, I always say!” He gulped his drink.

MacQueen took him by the shoulders and shook him gently. “Jimmy, old bean, you’ve got a career to think of. Ease up, and for Chrissakes be more discreet. Once may be okay, but I think you’re ahead of that score, and the odds are mounting.”

“Oh well! Anyway, I’ve got a sore ass…” he said with a grin.

“Lord, who was it this time? One of my boys?”

MacQueen was only mildly angry. The war was over—and, even if it wasn’t, he couldn’t see much harm in everyone screwing everyone else, if that’s what they wanted—except for regulations. The base was full of Bluenosed bastards who loved to enforce these to the letter, on everyone but themselves, of course. Jimmy was an amusing messmate, but he was also a permanent force officer trained in the Royal Navy, where he claimed to have learned his bad habits. With his DSC ribbon conspicuous on his chest, a trace of a British accent, and a carefree attitude, he was a sitting duck for prigs who lacked his breeding.

“Jimmy, you’re drunk. Promise me you’ll head for your cabin and crash—alone! I’ll see you tomorrow and we can do the rounds of the base or something. Then you can respectably see all your pals.”

“Yeah. Just saluting you…”

“I’ve got to go, old boy. Have a nightcap then to the hammock. Promise?”

“Oh, okay. At least you care whether I live or die.”

“You are worth the whole roomful in there, Jimmy. Now let me phone and get out of here. Be off with ya, as they say in Ireland.”

“I thought you were Scot.”

“There seems to be some confusion. Good night, Jimmy.”

With a sigh MacQueen called for his car, shrugged on his greatcoat, and waited by the front door. The chief steward walked past him. “Great party, Chief,” said MacQueen.

“Thank you, sir. Is Lieutenant Cossit okay?”

“He’s flying pretty high, Chief. You understand. Try and get him off to his cabin.”

The chief smiled wryly. “I’ll do what I can, sir.”

“Good man,” answered MacQueen. He stepped outside, into the wet fog through which the wardroom windows shone like luminous orange squares. Someone shouted, “Dogs of War!” and he breathed another note of thanks that he had left in time. He watched two discs of light approach through the fog. The snow was decaying underfoot, and he could feel the dampness leaching through his Half Wellington boots. He turned up his collar. The car pulled up to the wooden walk, and the civilian driver got out and tipped his peaked cap. “Good evening, sir. Was it a good party?”

MacQueen glanced at him standing under the tall lamp post. Rodney was his favourite driver, always well mannered and thoughtful. “Thanks, Rodney. Not too bad, but too much booze.”

“The petty officer is waiting to speak to you, sir. I just drove him to the house.”

He’s got a nerve, ordering my car in the middle of the night, thought MacQueen. What the hell does he want now?

They drove slowly out the back gate, the sentry shining a light into the car then jumping to salute. MacQueen returned the salute and fell into a brief doze until Rodney turned to him.

“Your quarters, sir.”

“What? Oh, yes. You’d better come in and we’ll see what’s cooking. The PO will probably want a drive back.”

“Aye, sir,” said Rodney, opening the back door and offering his hand. The house was barely visible through the fog, but strains of Rachmaninoff drifted into the damp night air. The PO was being entertained.