Scruffy - A Diversion (21 page)

There it lay upon his desk, a single sheet of white bumph, and he sat looking at it as though it were a snake, transfixed and fascinated. Words from the message leaped up from the page and burned through the bone of his skull into the unhappy grey matter beneath. “Prime Minister,” “expresses concern,” “disquieting rumours,” “NOT be allowed to die out,” “every effort should be made.” If he had read the communication once he had been through it some dozens of times. He knew it by heart and yet what refused to filter through to his brain was the connection between the Prime Minister— THE PRIME MINISTER OF GREAT BRITAIN, Winston Churchill, the director and guiding genius of the Empire and of the war—and a pack of monkeys.

The Brigadier was a soldier and not a psychologist. He had been growing greyer for months with the problems of defending an indefensible position should Spain become involved. He was part of a command under which absolute prodigies were being performed by British engineers hollowing out the Rock so as to provide bomb-proof shelters, shops and ammunition depots. An air strip was taking form in a frenzy of round-the-clock labour, all under the noses of the Germans, of course, but time was desperately wanted, and men and money. All this was going reasonably well, discounting frustrations and exasperations to be expected when a work of this nature is being rushed through in the face of possible enemy action at any moment. And here was the leader of the greatest nation on the face of the earth expressing concern over a pack of apes—monkeys. Filthy beasts that prowled the street, urinating, defecating, and spoiling people’s gardens.

It is axiomatic that no commander except the genius at the very top is able to see a war as more than a piece with which he is intimately concerned. That anyone’s concern over the welfare of a pack of ugly and useless Macaques could have something to do with gaining some of the time so desperately needed to complete the works in progress was a connection too tenuous and far-fetched to be appreciated by a military man responsible for the lives of the civilian as well as military population under his command.

The apes had not been called to his attention for almost a year, ever since he had dismissed Captain Bailey and installed a new O.I.C. Apes. He had successfully got rid of a recurring irritation and if ever a thought of them had intruded upon him he had congratulated himself upon the successful way in which he had coped.

And now out of the blue the whole subject of apes was suddenly revived, alive, vibrating, worrying, and at the hands of none other than the Prime Minister of Great Britain. The Prime Minister!

And here as he said the potent and magic name to himself the thoughts of the Brigadier whirled and tumbled and panicked as to what he was to do. For old and experienced and full of rank as he was, the chain of command was still a part of his life, and if he was a potentate before whom Captains and Subalterns trembled, yes and Majors and Lieutenant-Colonels too, so he himself was but a callow youth trembling before the august presence of the P.M. and even more the power that he represented. All the lives, the fears and the hopes of the British people and of himself as well were bound up in the person of this one great man. And there he was demanding to know about a lot of monkeys.

The Brigadier touched a button and when his secretary appeared ordered, “Get me Lieutenant Barton and tell Major Quennel I want to see him when he comes in.”

Ten minutes later Lieutenant Barton, O.I.C. Apes, was ushered in. He was a fresh-faced boy with rosy cheeks and curly hair with the still innocent eyes of one who had not yet discovered that most men will lie, cheat or steal to gain their ends. He went through the ritual of the greeting salutes and attention as though he meant it, which indeed he did.

“Sit down, Barton,” commanded the Brigadier. “Now what’s all this about those rotten apes?”

“What’s all what, sir?”

Momentarily disarmed by the innocence of the young man’s eyes the Brigadier realized that he had started off wrong. The boy could have no knowledge of the contents of the message on the desk before him, and at that moment the Brigadier was not altogether wishful that he should. What he wanted was information. Right information, proper information,
happy
information. Something he could bung into an answering telegram to the Secretary of State who would convey it to the ear of the great man and close off this little matter for ever. He tried a new and more affable tack. “How are you and the monkeys getting along, Barton?”

The young man looked surprised but not yet distressed. “Why—why I don’t know, sir.”

Brigadier Gaskell glared. “You don’t know? What do you mean you don’t know? You’re O.I.C. Apes, aren’t you?”

“That’s right, sir, but you said I wasn’t to go near them. You said I was to make out my report on a single sheet of paper twice a year and if you ever caught me mucking about the apes’ village or sticking my nose into any kind of monkey business you’d have the pips off my shoulders quicker than I could sing ‘Who is Sylvia?’ Those were your words, sir,”

They were too, as the Brigadier remembered. He said, “Oh, come now, Barton, I may have joked a bit but when you accepted the O.I.C. Apes you assumed certain responsibilities which I expected you to carry out.”

The innocent eyes widened somewhat and some of the innocence began to fade. Lieutenant Barton was encountering some of man’s inhumanity to man and what seemed to be the beginning of a military double-cross in the higher echelons. “But, sir, you said—”

“Never mind what I said, you’re supposed to use your head in this service, that’s why we make you officers.”

“You said,” Lieutenant Barton went on doggedly, continuing to bat on the only wicket available, “you said I was to leave everything to that slob Lovejoy and if you ever caught me—”

Gaskell cut him short. “Yes, yes, I’ve heard that. Now then, how many apes are there at present in the Queen’s Gate pack?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Why not?”

“I haven’t counted them, sir. My report isn’t due for another two months, sir.”

Major Quennel came in.

“Oh, there you are, Quennel,” the Brigadier said. “Have you seen this yet?” He passed him the signal. The
aide
read it and as an old and trusted assistant permitted himself a whistle.

“Damnable, what?” the Brigadier said. He turned to young Barton again. “Well, what about their health? Are they in good health or bad?”

“I don’t know, sir. I haven’t been near—”

Gaskell suddenly looked cunning. “Well,” he said, “have you heard any rumours that they weren’t feeling too fit perhaps?”

“Only the Nazi broadcast, sir.”

The Brigadier was genuinely startled. “The what?” he cried.

“The broadcasts in Spanish from that German station in Algeciras saying the apes were dying out. I didn’t pay any attention to it. Anyway, I thought you’d be pleased.”

A sinking feeling differing from his initial bewilderment played with the pit of the Brigadier’s stomach. For the first time it began to dawn upon him that there was more behind the message on the desk before him than he had imagined. He turned angrily upon Quennel. “Had you heard those broadcasts, Quennel?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then why wasn’t I informed?”

“I thought you’d have heard them yourself, sir, and anyway it was a matter for O.I.C. Apes.”

That frightened officer leaped into that breach with all his youth and agility. “You said I wasn’t to mention apes to you, sir, not under any circum—”

The Brigadier felt the trap closing in about him and struggled to break the strands. “My God,” he said, “I am surrounded by imbeciles. What’s the good of my relying on you, Quennel? And this forty-watter here,” indicating the hurt and unhappy Barton. “Doesn’t know how many apes there are, where they are, whether they are sick or well, alive or dead.”

Major Quennel said soothingly, “Why don’t you have a word with Gunner Lovejoy, sir, he knows all about them.”

“Get him then,” the Brigadier ordered, “and quickly.”

The Brigade Major said some harsh things into the black mouthpiece of his telephone and the Gunner was produced with miraculous rapidity almost resembling a pantomime entrance. He stood at rigid attention. All his buttons were buttoned and his mind was galloping at a thousand revs per minute in an endeavour to deliver an estimate of the offence he was about to be charged with, and how long it would be before he would once more emerge into the sunshine from durance vile. He had never before been called before such high brass.

Brigadier Gaskell, however, said, “Stand easy, Lovejoy. I want you to answer some questions. How many apes are there in the Queen’s Gate pack?”

“Nine, sir. There’s old Scruff, Pat, Tony, Helen, Pansy—”

“Never mind the names. Is that all?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How many were there originally?”

For one instant the eyes of Gunner Lovejoy shifted to O.I.C. Apes Barton and back again, and now the young Lieutenant knew that he was really in for it. He was to be squeezed between top and bottom for doing what he had been told was his duty and carrying out his orders.

“Originally, sir? Originally when?”

“Well, whenever you like, or, say, when Lieutenant Barton took over.”

“Twenty-six, sir.”

The sinking feeling returned to the Brigadier’s centre. “And the Middle Hill pack?”

“Eleven, sir—no, ten. I found Martha dead this morning.”

“Martha?” queried the Brigadier.

“She was Bill’s wife, sir, or rather he had his eye on her, when she moved over to Alf. Bill took it ’ard. There was a bloody row. Martha got herself in the middle of it.”

The Brigadier was nearing the boiling point once more. “Who the devil are you talking about, Lovejoy?”

“The apes, sir.”

The Brigadier exhaled a long breath. “Ten down from what?”

“Twenty-four, sir.”

“Why? What’s been happening?”

“Lots of sickness, sir. We’ve had some bad storms. Not getting enough to eat, sir. Malnurtition! Weakens ’em. Along comes a big wet and down they go.”

“Look here,” said Gaskell, “that won’t do. Aren’t you supposed to be looking after them?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why don’t you feed them properly?”

The Gunner’s eyes went to Lieutenant Barton again. The Subaltern, although he was learning fast, was both a gentleman as well as an officer. He said, “Not enough food for them on rations, sir. Lovejoy there used to scrounge the rest. I caught him at it and put a stop to it. Seven days’ punishment. You said—”

Brigadier Gaskell thought that if he heard the phrase “you said” once more the top of his head would blow off.

“It would break your ’eart, sir,” Lovejoy said, “to see them like that. It’s the wrong time of the year for them to forage for themselves after the dry spell, and the prickly pears, locust beans and American fruit being off.”

The Brigadier did not think it would break his heart, and then very quickly, as his eye caught the fatal signal on his desk, he thought it probably would. The answer to it was going to be very dusty indeed unless a miracle of some kind were to take place. There were half a dozen questions which sprang to his lips and he was at pains to stifle all of them and think again since there was every likelihood that they would lead to that extraordinary dim bulb of a Barton saying: “But you said, sir—” He supposed one might maintain the
status quo
by increasing the rations, but if the Gunner’s information and calculations were correct he was six filthy beasts off what the Prime Minister had laid down as minimum. He said to Lovejoy, “Don’t they, ah—breed? I thought monkeys were always—”

“No, sir,” replied the Gunner. “It’s just exploration, sir, in a way of speaking. The females don’t come on until the winter, about a month from the middle of December through January.”

“What’s the gestation period?”

“About six months, sir.”

The Brigadier did some rapid calculations in his head. Three months to fertility, after which if every male did his duty and was on target, one might reasonably expect the Prime Minister’s quota to be reached by the following June or July.

The Gunner, who had seen the Brigadier’s lips moving as he did his mental mathematics, dashed these hopes very quickly.

“There’s not enough females, sir,” he said. “It wants about eight to ten females to one male for proper breeding. You lose a lot of them young hapelets anyway. I’ve had ’em stillborn or killed in fights.”

“Well,” said Gaskell, “get some more females then. The Prime Minister wants the apes kept up to strength.”

“Get them from where, sir?”

The net was closing in indeed. The Brigadier threw what almost might have been interpreted as a despairing glance at his O.I.C. Apes, but young Barton, who had been badly bruised, was not having any. “I don’t know, sir,” he put in. “I just thought they sort of were here all the time, or came through a tunnel.”

The Brigadier was too beaten even to permit himself the luxury of a fury. “Very well,” he said. “Double ration for the time being. I’ll speak to the Quartermaster. That will be all.”

Outside the office Lovejoy pinched himself unbelieving. He had been in the very lair of the tiger and emerged not only unscathed but with double rations for the apes. But it had been a most shattering experience. He felt badly in need of a Guinness and lime.

Lieutenant Barton and the Gunner departed, leaving the Brigadier and his Brigade Major alone. They had been together long enough for Gaskell to be able to relax when by himself with Quennel. “What the devil do we do now, Roger?”

The compelling bit of paper with its ineradicable message lay on the desk before them. A name, an unspoken name hovered in the air between them. The Brigadier did not wish to speak it, in fact was quite incapable of bringing it forth, and his adjutant did not dare and in fact had actually been warned against it during a briefing he had had several days ago from a mysterious Major who had arrived on the Rock from London not long before, one of the hush-hush boys who had joined Major McPherson, the Security Officer. The briefing had in a way been prophetic, and Major Quennel was marvelling at the manner in which the present had followed the line of the future that the mystery Major had predicted. He now proceeded as instructed to carry out the final part of the briefing. He picked up the message, read it again, put it down and said, “There’s a Major Clyde here, sir, I wonder if perhaps—”