We Joined The Navy (30 page)

‘Next door to British Honduras. I looked it up on the map. It’s a Crown Protectorate.’

‘Then what are they rebelling for?’

‘God knows, it’s the season for it, I suppose. It’s the national sport in this neck of the woods. The Captain’s going to tell us all about it at nine o’clock.’

The Captain spoke to the ship over the ship’s broadcasting system. The Captain abhorred public speaking and avoided it if he could; it was one of his favourite sayings that a Captain should address his Ship’s Company on commissioning and on going to war and at no other time.

‘As you must all know by now,’ he said, ‘we are on our way to sort out a bit of unpleasantness in a place called SanGuana Annuncion. I’ve never heard of it myself but I’m told on good authority that it’s important. It’s a Protectorate of the Crown, which means that to a certain extent we’re responsible for what goes on. This place has only a short history. It was virgin jungle until after the first World War when they found oil and minerals and all sorts of valuable things there. The capital, a place called Cajalcocamara, where we’re going now, is something of an international city, something like Tangier. They’re always having revolutions in these parts so I don’t suppose this one will be up to much. I expect we’ll find the whole thing settled and they’re all asleep when we get there. If that’s so we can all go away and get on with our cruise. That’s all.’

Afterwards, the Captain addressed all officers in the wardroom.

‘For your benefit, gentlemen, I’m going to amplify a little of what I told the sailors. This country we’re going to has been almost completely developed and opened up by people from outside. The Americans have a strong interest in the oil, the Swiss have got several banks there, several mining firms and fruit shippers have factories and property in the country, and there’s a thriving brothel area. They’re moderately civilised now, in fact. I’m told that Gieves have got a branch in Cajalcocamara. Foreigners have put a lot of money into the place and they more or less say what goes on. The hereditary ruler, a man called Dominquin Monterruez, is not much more than a picturesque figurehead. Dominquin claims to be descended from the Sun God, but from what the Foreign Office say he seems to be little more than a Red Indian, but he did send his son, Aquila, to England for his education. And that’s the cause of the trouble. Aquila seems to have got in with a very bad set at Oxford and he now knows something about democracy and, according to the Foreign Office handout, he can play the guitar. When he got back to SanGuana a year ago, Aquila immediately started to pester the old man to let San-Guanos have more say in the government of the place. I suppose that’s reasonable, but it put the British Consul there in an embarrassing position because it was he who suggested sending Aquila to England. Yesterday afternoon, during the siesta, Aquila and his party took over Radio SanGuana, blockaded all roads from the capital, picketed the railway station and closed the harbour. They also locked Dominquin and the British Consul up in the Consulate. This sounds very amusing to us but H.M. Government take a very serious view of it because, here I’m quoting, “Any continued instability in the political situation in SanGuana Annuncion will further the ends of undesirable elements in Central and South America.” What that means exactly I can’t tell you, gentlemen, but there it is. Commander, I suggest that you get the ship’s company together this forenoon and explain the details a bit more fully about landing parties and so on. That’s all I have to say, gentlemen.’

Barsetshire
expected to arrive off Cajalcocamara in the late afternoon. In the forenoon, the Ship’s Company mustered by divisions for the issue of small arms, webbing equipment, rations, and instructions on the technique of dealing with street riots. After the issue, the Ship’s Company closed aft for an address by the Commander.

The Commander stood up on the after screen where everybody could see him. He was conscious of a repressed excitement in the mass of faces below him.

‘I’ve called you aft,’ he began, ‘to give you an idea of our organisation for this afternoon and to let you get some picture of the problems you’re likely to have to face when or if, you get ashore. I say “if” because these sort of affairs look a lot more exciting than they actually turn out to be. They’re often very disappointing, like following a woman up the street and then seeing her turn round. Remember that it is possible that some of you will be separated from the main body and may be surrounded by unfriendly, if not hostile, crowds. You will have to act on your own initiative and the ship will be judged by the actions of small groups just as much as large ones. You can have just as much effect on the situation, one way or the other, with a few of you as with a big platoon. So all listen carefully to what I have to say. You will all be in platoons by departments, using the same sub-divisions as for the regatta, that is to say the Communications Branch, if they are required, will land with the Band, and so on. The Royal Marine Detachment will provide the first landing party under the command of the Captain of Royal Marines. They will be supported by a special riot squad provided by the engine room and supply and secretariat branches. They will carry tear gas, and lanchester carbines, and will be under the command of the Gunnery Officer. That should be enough, but the remainder of the Ship’s Company will follow as required. The cadet platoons will provide reinforcements, under the command of Lieutenant Commander Badger. So much for the outline of the organisation. The Gunnery Officer will give you the details after I’ve finished. Now for the purpose of this landing, if we make a landing. The reason why we are going ashore.’

The Commander paused. The Ship’s Company braced themselves.

‘Our aim is not to take an active part in this affair,’ said the Commander. ‘Our job is to act as an aid to the civil power. Remember that, we are here as an aid to the Consul if he wants us. The ship is not in any way responsible for the administration of this place, we’re just here to give help if we’re needed. We hope, and the authorities ashore hope, that our mere presence here will help to stabilise the situation a bit. So when you go ashore don’t look for trouble or I can assure you you’ll find it. We want to keep everything as quiet as we can. These Latin countries can be very hot-tempered. That’s all I want to say. Special sea dutymen will be piped at thirteen-thirty, hands will fall in by landing parties when we anchor at fourteen hundred. I recommend you all to eat a hearty dinner. You don’t know when you’ll be eating a hot meal again.’

‘If ever’ said a funereal voice from the stokers’ division, amongst hollow laughter.

‘Keep silence!’ roared the R.P.O.s standing around.

The ship anchored off Cajalcocamara in the afternoon. Some of the more excitable of the Ship’s Company expected an immediate answering rattle of machine-gun fire and a fusillade of bombs from the shore but they were disappointed. It was the afternoon siesta and SanGuana slept. Revolutions were for the evenings when the blood quickened and the mind was clearest. Not even the thundering of
Barsetshire
’s anchor cable roused the town. The shoreline lay still and peaceful, shimmering in the midday heat.

On board, the quietness was regarded as ominous. The Captain had expected the Consul to come on board as soon as he was able, to inform the ship of the latest situation and to state his requirements for assistance in the way of arms, hospital facilities and food. If the Consul did not appear, then it might mean that for some sinister reason he was prevented from coming.

After an hour’s wait there was still no sign of activity on shore. The Ship’s Company mustered in the waists grew restless.

‘Eerie, ain’t it?’

‘Wonder if they’ve all been murdered?’

‘I always thought wogs was a noisy lot. I reckon this revolution must be about the quietest in history.’

‘Keep silence!’

On the quarterdeck, the Captain was also concerned by the lack of contact with the shore.

‘This is bloody stupid,’ he said to the Commander. ‘I don’t know what’s going on in there but we’ll look a lot of Charlies if they’re up to no good while we stick here doing nothing.’

‘I agree, sir. Shall we send the first landing party in, sir?’

‘Damned if I know what to do. This is the queerest set up I’ve ever come across. All right, Commander, send the Marines and the Gunnery Officer’s party in shore to find out what’s going on.’

‘Aye aye, sir!’

A ripple of movement spread along the upper deck as the Royal Marines and the Gunnery Officer’s riot squad prepared to embark in the boats. The Chief G.I. was on deck and ready, as always, with the
mot juste
.

‘Now remember,’ he said, ‘keep your thumbs over your bayonets when the boat touches. You don’t want to stick it up the man in front’s arse before the battle even starts, do you?’

The Royal Marine Detachment headed for one end of the harbour and the Gunnery Officer and his party headed for the other. It had long been one of the Gunnery Officer’s ambitions to lead a landing party ashore. He looked with pride at his force, sitting in the pinnace with their thumbs over their bayonets. The Gunnery Officer’s heart filled with the remembrance of other landing forces: Gallipoli, Salerno, Anzio, Guadalcanal, Normandy. The Gunnery Officer was proud that he and his motley band of stokers, cooks, stewards, writers and stores assistants were the latest in a great and illustrious tradition.

They were not opposed on the beach head and the Gunnery Officer formed his party up in three ranks, dressed them, and marched them into the town.

At the other end of the harbour, the Royal Marines were exciting as little attention. When the Captain of Royal Marines landed on the jetty there was no one in sight at all. The Captain of Royal Marines looked bewilderedly about him. There was a sense of anticlimax, of abandoned desolation in the appearance of the deserted roadway, the motionless railway trucks, the silent cranes and the shuttered windows.

‘Hoy!’ shouted the Captain of Royal Marines. His cry echoed down the waterfront and lost itself in whispers in the dust and the tattered scraps of paper.

A head belonging to a man who looked like a waterfront policeman or customs official appeared at a window.

‘Where’s the revolution, mate?’ asked the Sergeant-Major.

‘What revolution?’

‘
The
revolution! El Revolutionario!’

‘Oh that! See that road up there? Up there a bit, first on the left.’

‘Thanks, mate.’

The head disappeared.

The Captain of Royal Marines, remembering his lecture notes on street fighting, formed his men into two single files and led them along the street, keeping one file on each side of the road. The Royal Marines kept in the shadows as far as possible and carefully negotiated each corner before they crossed into the sunlight. They were watched with interest by several sleepy San-Guanos from their first floor windows.

The first turning on the left led into a square. The Marines silently infiltrated into it and stood waiting for the Captain of Royal Marines to give them a lead. The Captain of Royal Marines surveyed the square.

A clump of palm trees in the centre of the square shaded a small brick building which had the words ‘Urinario Revolutionario’ white-washed in large straggling letters on one wall. In smaller letters were the subsidiary words ‘Hombres’ and ‘Senoras.’ By the small brick building were the Gunnery Officer and his landing party.

The Gunnery Officer and the Captain of Royal Marines met in the road. ‘Now what?’

‘Now we consolidate our position, of course,’ said the Gunnery Officer. ‘This looks like the main square of the town, so we might as well take charge of it. I’ll do that with my party, while you press on and see if you can find the British Consulate. There must be someone alive in this town.’

‘It’s all a bit too quiet for me. Don’t you think we’d better hang on a bit before we start consolidating and all that?’

‘This is just the siesta, when they wake up there’ll be all hell let loose again. We want to be well trenched in and ready for them before that happens.’

‘I suppose you’re right.’ The Marines formed up in single file once more and infiltrated out of the square as silently as they had come in.

The Gunnery Officer called his party together.

‘Chief’ he said to the Regulating Chief Stoker, ‘take your stokers over to that side of the square and occupy a house. Be tactful about it and try and not disturb people too much. Set up a position on the first floor where you can command the square. Chief Steward, you do the same with your party on this side.’

‘Aye aye, sir’ said the Regulating Chief Stoker and the Chief Steward.

The platoon of stokers doubled across the square and vanished into a house. The platoon of cooks and stewards did the same on the other side of the square.

There was silence for a few moments and then, as though a fuse had been lit and run its course, the square exploded into life. Both platoons erupted back into the roadway, each pursued by a huge old woman, who waved her fists threateningly. The Gunnery Officer could hear the shouts from where he stood.

‘Seex o’clog! Go way! My girls mus’ have sleep somptimes! Gom bag at seex o’clog! My girls waits for you!’

The sailors stood uncertainly in the sunshine, perplexed by the uproar.

‘Try the next one!’ bellowed the Gunnery Officer. ‘That’s a bloody flop-house you’ve got there!’

‘Aye aye, sir.’

The sailors rallied and charged into the next house.

Again the house was filled with clamorous squealings and shriekings and again the stokers, and the cooks and stewards, were driven back out into the square by further angry old women who pursued the sailors and chased them with a torrent of language which made them blink and gasp as though under a cold shower.

‘Bordello!’ shouted the Gunnery Officer.

‘But, sir . . .’ wailed the Chief Steward.

‘Don’t answer me back, man! Try the next one! They can’t all be bag-shanties!’

‘But, sir . . .’

‘Go on, man!’

‘Aye aye, sir.’