A cloud of thick, choking cigarette smoke filled every square inch of the pub. Patrons lined up three deep along the bar, clamoring to move closer. Raising a hand, they’d shout their order, trying to get one of two bartenders’ attention. Bottles and glass mugs filled with pints of stout were passed clinking from hand to hand, in exchange for pounds and shillings.
Next to a side entrance five men were “shooting” darts. A continuous “thump” sounded as each needle nose dart struck the board. Shouts and moans simultaneously erupted with each hit. Tonight was just a friendly game, a practice game. Tomorrow they’d be playing for a trophy and bragging rights. Yanks against Brits. The competition was fierce.
American military personnel, both Navy and Marines stationed at St. Mawgan, eventually found their way to the pub. Initially, the Brits felt their personal space had been invaded by the foreigners. What began as a mild form of animosity between Brits and Yanks, eventually turned into a special bond between the two.
Grant walked in and stood briefly by the door. Heads turned, seeing a stranger, already assuming he was another Yank.
He looked around the room, trying to spot Davis. As he unzipped his windbreaker, he walked toward the bar. No sign of Davis. He pushed through the crowd and went back near the door, standing by an empty table. Looking back toward the bar, he noticed a variety of coasters on display overhead. Brit and Yank uniform badges were stapled along the overhang.
Davis walked in, running his fingers through his windblown hair. He was wearing a pair of jeans and a light-colored cable knit sweater. “Hey, mate! Been waiting long?” he asked Grant, as he pulled out a chair from under the table.
“Just got here,” Grant replied as he shook Davis’ hand. “Glad you could make it. What can I get you from the bar?”
Davis held up a hand. “This one’s on me. What’ll it be?”
“Whatever you’re having,” Grant answered, as he took off his windbreaker, hung it on the back of the chair and sat down.
More patrons arrived. There was practically standing room only. Recorded music, blaring earlier, was drowned out by a continuous babel of loud voices.
Davis pushed his way through the crowd, finally getting close enough to the thirty-foot-long, curved bar. One of the bartender’s, Sam Pearson, spotted him and came over. They chatted briefly, with Davis turning and pointing in Grant’s direction. Davis disappeared behind more patrons crowding around him.
After a few minutes, Grant looked up and saw Davis maneuvering his way through a sea of bodies, finally making his way to the table. He handed Grant a large glass of dark ale.
Davis pushed the chair with his foot then sat. He held up his glass, and Grant tapped his glass against it. “Cheers!” the Englishman smiled.
Grant took a large swig of warm beer, then wiped a finger across his mouth, swiping away foam. As many times as he’s had the warm brew, he still preferred a cold Budweiser.
“Well I’ll be damned!” a voice said loudly from within the crowd.
Grant looked over Davis’ shoulder, seeing someone coming towards him. He recognized the face immediately. “Jack!” he said with a broad smile as he got up. They greeted one another with slaps on the back.
Jack Henley was 5’9”, had short, jet black hair, hazel eyes. From the left corner of his mouth to mid-cheek was a faded scar, the only scar visible as a result of a VC attack on his patrol boat in the Mekong Delta.
Backing away, Grant laughed, “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I might ask you the same thing!” Henley replied. “Hey, am I interrupting?” he asked looking at Davis.
“Hell no!” Grant made the introductions. “Chaz, this is Jack Henley. Jack, Chaz Davis.” The two shook hands. “Jack and I were roommates at the Naval Academy.” Grant pulled out another chair. “Come on! Sit! Can I get you something to drink?”
Henley shook his head. “Just ordered. Waitress will be bringing it.” He leaned back, shaking his head. “Shit! Can’t believe this. All these years and I run into you in Brit territory.” He shot a look at Davis. “Sorry. I meant English territory.”
Davis laughed. “Not to worry, Yank!”
“So, what brings you here to jolly old England?” Henley asked, reaching for the glass the pretty blond waitress handed him. He took a sip of his gin and tonic.
Grant rested his forearms on the table, sliding his glass back and forth between his palms as he answered, “Took a couple weeks leave. Been doing some diving. Chaz has a dive shop and boat down in Porthgwarra. He’s been my dive buddy.”
“Haven’t done any diving myself,” Henley commented, “but hear Cornwall has some of the best.”
Grant sipped on his beer, then asked, “So, how’s the personal life? Married?”
“Divorced once, then got married again eight months ago. Vicky’s British. She’s from St. Ives.”
“Hey, congratulations!” Grant said, lifting his beer glass. “Here’s to you both!”
“What about you?” Henley asked. “Married? Single? On the ‘hunt’?”
“Married once. Been single since Jenny died.”
“Jesus, Grant. I’m sorry.”
“Me, too,” Davis said quietly, learning a little more about this American, who he already considered to be a friend.
Grant gave a quick nod, then changed the subject. “Now it’s your turn, Jack. Still in?”
“Oh, yeah. Been stationed the past eighteen months at St. Mawgan’s EOD command.”
Grant wasn’t expecting Henley to expound on his current duty. Nothing had to be added considering the secret St. Mawgan held.
Grant nodded. “Hey, listen, if you can get away, why don’t you come diving with us? We’re going out again tomorrow. What do you think, Chaz? Would that be okay?”
“Two Yanks at one time? Might be trouble,” Davis laughed.
Henley shook his head. “Thanks, but tomorrow might not be good.”
“Okay,” Grant said, “there’s still time. I’ll be here several more days.”
Henley pulled the sleeve of his sweater back, looked at his watch, and frowned. “Hmm.”
“Something wrong, Jack?” Grant asked.
“I was expecting a friend of mine. He should’ve been here by now.”
“Need to call him?”
Henley shook his head. “Nah. He lives right down the street. If he’s not here in awhile, I’ll go check his flat. That damn Cooper of his can usually be heard before he even hits downtown!” He took a sip of his drink, then asked Grant, “So, you’re still working for Uncle Sam, too, huh?”
Grant swallowed the last mouthful of beer. “Steady paycheck.”
“Where you stationed?”
“D.C.,” Grant responded, hoping Henley didn’t want any further details, especially while sitting in this crowded pub.
“Nice duty!”
Grant laughed. “Better than a boat!” Then he stood, holding his beer mug toward the two men. “Anybody need a refill?”
“Not for me,” Henley answered, holding up his half full glass. “I’m gonna have to leave soon. Told Vicky I’d pick her up at her brother’s house in St. Columb Major.”
Davis threw the last mouthful of stout down his throat, handing the mug to Grant. “Don’t want to get too ‘tanked’ up, but I’ll have one more!”
While Grant went to the bar, Henley looked at his watch again. He was worried. He finished his drink, then carried on a brief conversation with Davis.
Grant made it through the crowd without spilling beer or Coke. He handed Davis the beer then sat down. “So, did I miss anything?” He looked at Henley. “You still worried about your friend?”
“Shouldn’t be, but it’s not like him.”