alternatehistory.com

Interlude II – Where Beer Does Flow and Men Chunder​

Spirit of a sailor
Circumnavigates the globe…

.-.. --- -. --. / .-- .. -. -.. / .--- .- -- -- . .-. ... / ... .- .. .-.. .. -. --. / --- -. / - .... . / --- -.-. . .- -. ...​

From Wynd, M. A Century on the High Seas: The Royal New Zealand Navy 1910 to 2010 (Manukau: Auckland University Press, 2010).

Chapter 8: World War Three Activities in the Pacific and Beyond

…addition to the decision to postpone the decommissioning of the Otago, the re-commissioning of the Taranaki was thus a major priority of the Muldoon Government in the run-up to the outbreak of war in Europe, and this paid off handsomely when the boiler which had been ceremonially extinguished almost two years earlier burned once more with a new and – as it would soon prove – vital flame…

…The Otago and Taranaki made port at Melbourne on April 21st, holds packed with many tonnes of supplies both for the seamen and soldiers aboard and as a part of the aid shipment intended for Britain. They escorted three freighters from New Zealand (the Dunedin, the Marlborough, and the Southern Cross; all owned, incidentally, by a shipping line run by the Mayor of Dunedin's family) loaded with beef and mutton carcasses as well as a quantity of coal from Southland and the West Coast and even a token amount of aluminium from Tiwai Point. However, the Emergency Cabinet had made the collective decision to withhold pharmaceutical supplies, and medical aid of any kind was in short stock amongst the supplies sent on the Convoy. Aside from the obvious lack of supply within New Zealand (already supplies of vital drugs were running low: it was becoming hard for the man on the street to access several drugs which could no longer be imported from Europe or supplemented by Australian supplies), there was a very small hope that perhaps the British might have something to spare…

…of the USS Roanoke in Suva came too late for it to be of assistance in TRANSIT OF VENUS, but the additional range afforded by the inclusion of a fleet oiler into the Tasman navies did allow for extended expeditions to be undertaken in the Central Pacific as winter approached. Also of interest was the information the sailors aboard this vessel and the Merrill brought with them: of the destruction of Pearl Harbour (at least three bombs), San Diego (same), Los Angeles (uncountable), Okinawa (four bombs), Guam (same), Subic Bay (destroyed with Manila) and all of the other American military bases they had attempted to make contact with. This would factor heavily into the reasonably sedate efforts at making contact in the North-West Pacific, though the decision to send an expedition to the West Coast regardless would prove…

…has been little official indication as to what the actual policy discussions in Melbourne and Christchurch were, we can infer that the Australian and New Zealand Governments decided to bolster the naval taskforce assigned to the Convoy – although this was explained away as defending the merchant shipping against Soviet submarines, the British experience at Whitby had shown that most, if not the entirety, of the Soviet Union’s submarines were out of commission – in a move which appears to have been designed to tacitly inform the British of the shift in the balance of power east of Aden. The decision to set sail on Anzac Day was also significant in another sense, as it affirmed national identity and acted as a crucial moment in the trans-Tasman relationship and a further step away from New Zealand’s former dependence upon Britain…

…the Indians, for their part, were mainly involved to alert the British and by extension the rest of the NATO states that reports of their demise had been very exaggerated (losses in Delhi, Old Bombay, Calcutta, and others notwithstanding), as well as delivering a message that they were now powerful enough to spare significant stocks of food and fuel to send as aid despite their losses in the Exchange, and a not-so-tacit declaration of their aspirations towards great power status in the new order. While the latent significance of the Indian effort was not appreciated initially, Rajiv Gandhi’s 1986 declaration…

- .... . / -.-. --- .-.. -.. / -... .-. . . --.. . / -... .-.. --- .-- .. -. --. --..-- / -.-- . .- ....​

The lust of a pioneer
Will acknowledge no frontier…

--- .... --..-- /.-.. . - / - .... . / ... ..- -. / -... . .- - / -.. --- .-- -. / ..- .--. --- -. / -- -.-- / ..-. .- -.-. .​

Flagstaff Gardens
Melbourne, Victoria
April 24, 1984

It was an obscenely nice afternoon in Melbourne. No humidity, high teens even at the end of April, and bright, bright sunshine. You could understand why there were literally hundreds of thousands of refugees crowding the place.

They’d had a good squiz at the refugee camps sprawling outwards from the city when they were flown in, with the acres of canvas and corrugated iron and caravans speckling every surface east of the Bay. A million was the best guess anyone had made, almost all of whom had come from Sydney or Canberra, descending upon Australia’s once and future capital like a horde since the wee small hours of February 22. The Lance Corporal had never seen so many people in one place; he was certainly prepared to believe the rumour going around that Melbourne’s three-or-four million made up the largest known city in the world.

In such an immense urban sprawl there were little islands of calm, places where, like back home, you could tilt your head and squint and convince yourself that there hadn’t been a war. Like this park, for instance.

Cricket was the game of the day; it had been dry enough recently for the ground to be good enough for it, and (more to the point) it had helped prevent a fight from breaking out over which rules they should play rugby by – “Aussie Fucking Rules,” Jonesy had sneered good-humouredly, “or league. League, mate!”

However, he wasn’t one of the company’s good cricket men, so he got to sit and watch as a few of the New Zealanders began hammering some stumps scrounged up by the Aussies into the ground, and the Lance Corporal got to let his mind wander and wonder what England would be like. Probably less cricket, for a start, he thought as the umpire produced a coin for the toss. Less of everything, I imagine. Pity. Not any sort of OE without a trip to London and a pub or two. A pause in thought as he sat up to watch the batting. Not likely to be going to Big Ben, either. Pity. Coulda sent a postcard. A crack, a flash of maroon as a ball scudded into the trees, and the two Aussies on bat started running as the Kiwis scurried about in the outfield. The Lance Corporal watched with detached interest as the process repeated itself a few times over before the Aussies were finally bowled out, shouting erupted from the crowd of soldiers and sailors who were spectating, and the teams changed over and they went on bowling and batting and fielding in the golden autumn sun. Suppose it’ll be summer in Britain by the time we get there, he thought, fingers idly tugging at grass which (understandably) hadn’t seen mowing for some months. Wonder if it’s anything like as nice as this?

As the Australians and New Zealanders played cricket under a sunset of violent reds and golds and purples, he couldn’t help but feel a tiny swell of Antipodean pride – even as the niggling voice of doubt piped up to say that the answer to his question was likely to be unpleasant.

Ah, well. Least she’s a decent sunset.

... - .- .-. ... / - --- / ..-. .. .-.. .-.. / -- -.-- / -.. .-. . .- --​

Tyranny of distance
Didn’t stop the cavalier…

- .- .-.. -.- / --- ..-. / -.. .- -.-- ... / ..-. --- .-. / .-- .... .. -.-. .... / - .... . -.-- / ... .. - / .- -. -.. / .-- .- .. –​

Government House
Melbourne, Victoria
April 24, 1984

The bigwigs had descended upon Government House like a Biblical plague, and the poncy kai hadn’t been far behind. Not that David Lange was complaining; being both bigwig and fond of a decent meal.

The PM had been similarly inclined, making his way over from Christchurch soon after Lange and Hawke returned from Port Hedland (these jaunts back and forth across the ditch, he thought, are gonna have Roger and the Ministry of Supply shitting bricks, I bet) and was now hobnobbing with his counterpart not too far across the room. David would have done the same, but seeing as how Hawke was wearing the Foreign Minister hat alongside his Prime Ministerial one, it would also have meant hovering around Palmer like a fly around shit. And while he was prepared to believe that he hadn’t wanted to steal the Prime Minister’s seat from under his nose, he was also fresh out of patience for his erstwhile deputy. No, kowtowing to him was simply too much to bear.

There, at least, he thought as he sipped on a decent glass of bubbly, was a small mercy. A lesser man might have bashed him over the head with the unexpected reversal. A more arrogant – no, scratch that, Geoff’s intellectually arrogant, at least – a pettier one certainly would have. Whatever else Lange might have held against him, the PM was content to lead by mediation. Probably it was what the country needed.

But outside the warrens of the Beehive – well, of Cathedral Square – they were all bit players in a far larger drama. The impressment of half the Australian crew of the Perth had not impressed Melbourne and Christchurch, with nobody quite trusting the British sailors sent in their place. Not that they were at all mistreated, of course. Indeed, the sailors who made up half the Perth’s return crew were welcomed as heroes, feted as survivors from the Mother Country and living proof that Britain was down but not out. At least, this was the official line trotted out in propaganda. Besides the obvious secrecy which could be woven around the sailors aboard Perth, it was useful to have official confirmation of the situation in Britain – to say nothing of whatever nightmarish rumours of Germany the Poms brought with them – as a club to beat whingers at home with.

Back in the here and now, Hawke’s grizzled face hove back into view, grinning at Lange. The Australian had apparently necked his glass of beer (him versus Rob, now that would be a match for the ages!) if the empty hands were anything to go by, and the enthusiasm with which he pumped David’s hand as he greeted him reinforced the impression. Unless, of course, it was just that he wasn’t accustomed to seeing genuine happiness in people these days – Hawke was certainly looking pleased.

“Ah! The man of the hour, eh? Looks like we’ve managed to get enough together to send topside as a nice little Queen’s Birthday present, then, dunnit?”

“It ought to keep Wee Willie Whitelaw satisfied for a bit, at least,” he responded with forced levity, before another thought interrupted it. “King’s Birthday now, too, I suppose. Speaking of, I wonder how Charlie’ll respond to getting his elbow ever so gently jogged once our boys get there in force regarding the, ah, fulfilment of the other half of that verbal contract.”
Hawke’s grin all of a sudden just showed a lot of teeth.

“They’ll react positively, we’d hope. It’d be a little bit…ungracious of ‘em not to, wouldn’t it? Hardly in keeping with all that Scout’s Honour and Land of Hope and Glory bull, anyway.”

Lange made an affirmative noise as he sipped his South Australian wine, before changing tack with “The Indians certainly seem to be playing a similar game, at least so far as strong-arming the Poms is concerned”, to which Hawke nodded along.

“Their Foreign Minister’s clearly been at this longer than either of us, eh?” Another mirthless grin. “If they’re sending him over with their lot he’ll run rings around the flaming Foreign Office, wunn’e?” Another sip of beer (where the hell did that come from?). “Mind, I reckon our intelligence fellahs’ll find out themselves, won’t they?”

“Ye-es,” he responded at length. “It’ll certainly be…educational. We’ll see if any of our High Commission staff made it, too – and wouldn’t it be a shame, just, if they were to misplace a sheet of A4 here or there in a diplomatic bag which had already been sealed and was intended for home?”

Hawke’s smile was suddenly frighteningly sober.

“You and I are gonna get along just fine, Minister.”

.-- .... . -. / .- .-.. .-.. / .-- .. .-.. .-.. / -... . / .-. . ...- . .- .-.. . -..​

So why should it stop me?
I’ll conquer and stay free…

..-. .- - .... . .-. / --- ..-. / - .... . / ..-. --- ..- .-. / .-- .. -. -.. ... / ..-. .. .-.. .-.. / -- -.-- / ... .- .. .-.. ...​

Port Phillip Bay, Australia
April 25, 1984

Upon receiving the order from land, Captain (until yesterday Commander) Bailey returned the salute given by the Royal Navy officer who had taken the place of his second mate (it was probably a poor attitude towards the Western Alliance that made him think of the man as a Pommie bastard, though if the ’82-’83 season was to have been the last Ashes ever Australia had at least won and set that part of the universe in order) and turned to his (Australian) second-in-command.

“Let’s get this show on the road, then,” he said, taking his place on the bridge and surveying the sea in front of them. As the Perth set out along the navigation channel, followed closely by the Brisbane, Taranaki, and Otago, all with the ritual amount of horn-blowing (of course – nothing to boost the local morale like saying “we’re so well off we can ship food halfway across the globe and expense be damned”), the comms officer radioed the Indian flotilla (by way of several transmissions bounced across the continent) to confirm the rendezvous and route. All going well it would be seventeen days to the Cape of Good Hope, with the plan being to meet the Indian contingent somewhere southeast of Madagascar. From there, it’d be a further eighteen days to Portsmouth, assuming they ran into the usual stormy weather of the Cape and whatever spring in the North Atlantic had to throw at them. Though, from what the Poms had said and he had seen in Portsmouth, there were almost certainly worse things awaiting them on land.

He found himself smiling as he looked out across the Bay towards Bass Strait and the Southern Ocean.

Bloody brilliant.

Not too far away, aboard HMNZS Otago, the Skipper (a captain, if not a Captain) was somewhat more sanguine, though it was easier to be happy-go-lucky without half of his crew being held hostage (through of course if you counted the on-base bar, there’d been a hostage situation of sorts as soldiers and sailors kept the barman on his feet all night on the 23rd). The Otago was well-stocked with supplies, and despite insistence that rations were to remain determined by the same strict guidelines as back in port, everybody recognised that even two months after the War had begun and ended the danger of enemy submarines made a little caloric hazard pay more than fair. After all, it wasn’t like paying the seamen in money would do them any more good, what with the wage and price freeze replaced with the grim arithmetic of rationing and the very concept of currency reduced to a strange limbo.

Below decks, the Lance Corporal was having trouble appreciating these pressing economic issues, as he was currently being sick out a window. Fuck me, I hope nobody’s taking photos, he thought, before breaking out in chuckles in between heaves at how stupid it all was. Here he was: the boy from New Plymouth sicking his guts up on a boat to Britain after surviving a nuclear war.

Well, at least the sunsets were nice.


Aotearoa!
Rugged individual!
Glisten like a pearl
At the bottom of the world…