Down The Hatch (18 page)

“Eleven, sir,” said Wilfred.

“Pass the message to the Torpedo Officer to go up to the fore ends and fire eleven white smoke candles from the forrard underwater gun! At the double! “

On the stroke of noon, the first canister curved into the air and dropped into the harbour. A massive plume of white smoke billowed from it. The Torpedo Instructor stood in the fore ends, taking his time from Rusty, and chanting: “If I wasn’t a T.I., I wouldn’t be here. . . .” When the salute was finished, Cajalcocamara harbour was enveloped in a dense smoke cloud and a foul smell of carbide.

“From
Beaufortshire
, sir: Are you on fire?”

“Make to
Beaufortshire
: Only with enthusiasm. Intend coming alongside you now.”

Seahorse
felt her way cautiously alongside
Beaufortshire
, The Bodger sounding the fog-siren in a most ostentatious manner.

Seahorse
’s officers were invited to take lunch in
Beaufortshire
. The meeting between the two wardrooms did not prosper.
Beaufortshire
had a social wardroom. As a mess, they were the last remaining stanchions of a way of life which vanished from the Royal Navy on September 3rd, 1939. They had a reputation as the most ferocious pride of social lions on either side of South America. The Amazon & River Plate Station might have been designed for their benefit. They rarely met another warship and bore the whole weight of the Navy’s official entertaining on both sides of the continent, a burden under which any other wardroom would have collapsed.
Beaufortshire’s
Navigating Officer explained the rigours of the commission to Gavin.

“Didn’t get any sleep for three nights running in Rio. And B.A. was beyond a joke. The races were on and people literally queued up to take us out, old boy. We were almost glad to get back to sea for a rest. I expect you find the same?”

“Not exactly.”

“Where have you just come from?”

“Portsmouth.”

“Take you long?”

“Forty-one days.”

Dagwood and Rusty were being entertained by the Captain of Royal Marines.

“I expect the first things you chaps’ll want is a bath, eh? Wash some of the smell off. Pretty smelly things, submarines, I’m told, eh?”

“Oh not at all,” said Dagwood. “All submarines have baths let into the deck. Black marble ones.”

“You’re pulling my leg! Black marble! What’s that for?”

“Night vision,” Dagwood said seriously.

“Great Scott! I never thought of that! I suppose you have to worry about that sort of thing in submarines, eh?”

“I should say so. Their Lordships are always telling us we must take more care over our sailors’ health. We get vitamin tablets, extra orange juice, sun-ray lamps, what else, Rusty?”

“Masseur,” said Rusty, right on cue.

“Oh yes. Masseurs. And pornography.”

“Pornography!”

“Oh yes, specially issued to submarines,” Dagwood looked carefully at the Captain of Royal Marines. Reassured, he went on. “They come in plain wrappers as a special supplement to the Advancement Regulations. People work up quite a frustration in submarines, you know. It’s all that sea time.”

“I can understand that! Have another drink, eh?”

“Thank you,” said the frustrated Dagwood. “I will.”

Derek was conducting the ritual negotiations between Engineer Officers concerning matters of fuel, lubricating oil and technical assistance.
Beaufortshire’s
Engineer Officer was a fat florid Lieutenant-Commander with a hearty laugh and a firm disinclination to be troubled by details. “How much fuel can you let us have, sir?”

“See my Chief Stoker. He’ll fix you up.”

“Is it Admiralty fuel?”

“Haven’t the faintest idea, dear old chap! Shouldn’t think so, for a moment. A little black man came on board somewhere along the coast, forget where it was now, and flogged us some.”

“But how about water content and all that?”

“Haven’t the
faintest
idea. I expect my Chief Stoker puts a line down and if he catches a fish he knows there’s water about, ha ha!”

“Yes,” said Derek.

Wilfred was also conducting a tribal pow-wow with
Beaufortshire’s
First Lieutenant on such esoteric matters as showers for the ship’s company, canteen opening hours, fresh bread, and dress for libertymen. He was finding the going as hard as Derek.

“How about mail, sir? Will your postman collect ours with yours?”

“Tell you what. Why don’t you ask your Coxswain to see my Coxswain and let them sort it out for themselves? Do you shoot? We got some very good duck at Recife. We might have a day here, if you’re interested.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t done any for a long time.”

“How about you, sir?”
Beaufortshire’s
First Lieutenant turned on Dangerous Dan who was staring, with barefaced horror, at a coloured print of the M.F.H. of the West Rutland Hunt of 1843 which was hanging above the wardroom fireplace.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said, do you shoot?”

“All our shoots are let.”

The First Lieutenant registered immediate interest.

“I didn’t catch your name, sir. . . .?”

“Sudbury-Dunne. S.U.D.B. . . .”

“Ah, your mother was a Pye-Gillespie before she married, wasn’t she?”

“Correct.”

“I believe I had a day at your place once.”

“I doubt it. Unless you know the Prime Minister well? Perhaps you do.”

In the Commodore’s day-cabin, The Bodger himself was having as sticky a time as his wardroom.

“Good to see you again, Badger,” Richard Gilpin was saying, coldly.

The Bodger, sitting on the edge of his chair nursing a glass of South African sherry, permitted himself a noncommittal grunt.

“We last met when you were my Number One in
Carousel
, is that right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Fine ship. Fine ship. Fine wardroom. Fine ship’s company.”

“Yes, sir.”

Inwardly, The Bodger marvelled at the way Richard Gilpin could contrive to look more like a naval officer than it seemed possible, or permissible, a naval officer should. Standing there by the fender, pouring himself a glass of sherry, his white uniform contrasting pleasantly with his lean tanned face, framed between the portrait of Nelson and the photograph of Admiralty Arch, Richard Gilpin might have been posing for a gin advertisement.

“I noticed several of your ship’s company needed haircuts this morning, Badger.”

“They’ve been at sea a month, sir.”

“Yes.” Richard Gilpin took a seamanlike sip at his sherry. “What was all that smoke this morning as we came in?”

“We had a little trouble with the forrard underwater gun, sir.”

“Yes, I suppose we must make allowances for the . . .” Richard Gilpin paused, “. . . illegitimate branches of the service.”

When The Bodger reached the safety of
Seahorse
’s wardroom again, he said: “Mid. Go ashore now. Find Aquila Monterruez. Tell him, from me, I would be delighted to accept his offer to drive in his motor race! “

The wardroom gave a concerted cheer. Dangerous Dan looked like a pilgrim granted a glimpse of Mecca.

“By the way, sir,” said Wilfred. “I’m afraid we’ve been asked to shift berth forrard of
Beaufortshire
as soon as we’ve completed fuelling.”

“Whatever for?”

The Midshipman went pink. “It was my fault, sir. As we were coming into harbour this morning, Leading Seaman Gorbles said what a good idea it would be to show our films on the upper deck against Beaufort shire’s ship’s side, sir. So I’m afraid I jokingly asked their First Lieutenant if he would mind painting a white square on their side to give us a better picture. . .”

“That does it! Mid, you can tell Aquila Monterruez that
Seahorse
will be entering a team for the International Targa Mango da SanGuana! Number One!”

“Sir!”

“Detail off a ship’s motor racing team!”

“Aye aye, sir! “

Snorting with fury, The Bodger retired to his cabin with a bottle of whisky and a copy of the Highway Code.

The news that H.M.S.
Seahorse
was entering an equipe for the Targa Mango was received by the British community in Cajalcocamara with astonishment and delight. Once they had assured themselves that the news was genuine, the British community rallied round. Mr MacTavish, the general manager of SanGuanOil, promised to supply the team’s petrol and oil; Mr Macintosh, executive head of SanGuana Motors (South America) Ltd promised tyres, sparking plugs and accessories; while the Anglican Church Ladies’ Scooter Club provided crash helmets for the whole team.

The problem of cars proved to be no problem at all. The British community, except the British Consul, fell over themselves to lend their cars until Scuderia
Seahorse
(as they were christened by the SanGuana motoring press) promised to be, if not the most practised, at least the most varied, team in the race.

The British Consul was sternly against the project from the start but when he saw the response from the rest of the British community he felt obliged to show the way. The Bodger was deeply moved when the British Consul, Aaron-like, offered his own pearl-grey Armstrong-Siddeley. It was an imposing model, with a bonnet as high as a barn roof and doors which shut with a massive clang like the closing of a bank vault.

“Look after the old girl, won’t you?” the British Consul said, wiping an unmanly tear from his eye.

The Bodger wrung the British Consul’s hand wordlessly, recognizing the magnificence of the gesture.

The planter who turned over his swamp-stained Land Rover to Gotobed and the Chef had a more earthy approach.

“I’ve filled the tank with petrol and the back with beer. All you’ve got to do now is get going and keep going. If you do that, you’re sure to get a place. Only one in ten finish this race anyway.”

Mr MacLean, the managing director of the First National Bank of SanGuana and himself an experienced rally-driver, lent Wilfred and Derek his Sunbeam.

The car was a green saloon with the competent look of all veteran rally cars, being fitted with white-wall tyres, sunvisor, three spotlights, a row of motoring club badges and a large spade strapped to the boot.

On the morning of the race, The Bodger and his co-driver Dangerous Dan went down to have a look at the opposition. They could hear the noise from the square a mile away and if they had needed any convincing of the importance of the Targa Mango, the sight of the square itself provided it. The whole carnival of the international motor racing scene had been set up in the city of Cajalcocamara. Overhead banners advertised tyres, sparking plugs and brake linings. Girls in tight trousers and sun-glasses, shoe-shine boys, lottery ticket sellers, tourists wearing coloured shirts and carrying cameras, short fat men in light tropical suits smoking cigars, and SanGuana policemen in khaki tunics and puttees paraded the square and inspected the cars. The cars were spaced out at intervals along the square and were surrounded by chattering groups of men in overalls, photographers and impatient men with badges in their buttonholes.

The Bodger and Dangerous Dan stopped by one gleaming red car. The engine was warming up with all the authority of high octane fuel, dual-choke carburettors, a trifurcated manifold, a dynamically-balanced crankshaft and twin overhead highlift camshafts. The driver, a dedicated-looking man called Danny Auber, was sitting in the driver’s seat, nodding and holding up his thumb.

“Nice drop of motor car! “ Dangerous Dan shouted.

The engine noise dropped. The Bodger kicked one of the superb high-hysteresis racing tyres. “Cheap modern tin-ware,” he said.

Danny Auber, triple winner of the Nurburgring 1000 Kilometre, hoisted himself out of the bucket seat and approached them. He had heard all about The Bodger and his equipe.

“Do you mind? You may think this is frightfully funny. We don’t. You see, we work here.”

The Bodger waved his hands deprecatingly. “But my dear chap. Please don’t mind us.”

Nonetheless, The Bodger was depressed by the incident. He felt like the captain of a visiting village cricket team who has just arrived at the ground to find his side matched against the Australians.

“Which is just about what we are,” said The Bodger despondently.

The race was timed to start at noon but the first car away, Gotobed’s Land Rover, mounted the starting ramp at eleven o’clock. This early start, unprecedented in the history of the race, was the outcome of a bitter argument between Aquila and the race officials. The race officials had protested vigorously against Scuderia
Seahorse
’s entry.

The race marshals had pointed to relevant definitions in the rule book. The time-keepers had quoted relevant passages in the minutes of meetings of bodies governing international motor racing. The scrutineers had appealed to Aquila’s sense of honour. The pit managers had tried bribery.

Aquila remained adamant. Commander Badger was a Freeman of Cajalcocamara and, furthermore, was driving at the personal invitation of the President. Either Scuderia
Seahorse
went to the starting line or there would be no International Targa Mango da SanGuana. The race officials retired and, turning a corner, came suddenly upon the spectacle of Gotobed and the Chef, wearing very fetching-lilac crash helmets, sitting in a battered Land Rover. The officials crossed themselves, returned to Aquila, and insisted that Gotobed and the Chef start an hour before the rest. Aquila could not refuse; he himself was secretly conscience-stricken by Gotobed’s motor-racing aspect.

Gotobed and the Chef were given a combined send-off by the ship’s companies of
Beaufortshire
and
Seahorse
and the citizens of Cajalcocomara which exceeded any ovation given any driver within living memory. The B.B.C. overseas commentator was so moved by the scene that he compared it to the historic occasion when the Flying Mantuan, the incomparable Nuovolari himself, won the race in an Alfa-Romeo at an average speed of sixty-eight miles an hour. (The Midshipman, who had been unanimously voted Duty Officer and was sitting disconsolately by himself in
Seahorse
’s wardroom, was strangely cheered by this description and poured himself another very large whisky.)