Fallow sighed deeply, watching the junks disappearing astern. “I hope you’re right, Chief,” he muttered, “I shan’t be sorry when we’re safely back in harbour.”
“That’s right, sir. You’ll be off home then, eh?”
Fallow smiled half to himself. “Yes. Did I show you the pictures my wife sent me of the new bungalow? I didn’t, did I?”
“Er, why no, sir!” Herridge leaned forward attentively, while Fallow fumbled eagerly for his wallet. He had already seen them twice, but he wouldn’t have hurt his feelings for the world.
Chase, the Chief Gunner’s Mate, passed them without glance or greeting. He was still brooding over the Captain’s behaviour on the upper bridge. Chase, like so many of his type, was a big man, with a small mind. Apart from that, he also disliked the ship and its outmoded atmosphere. He felt somehow that he had been drafted to her because of some old score being worked off on him by an enemy. This was partly true, for Chase was a bully, and for all his bluster, was more at home on the parade ground than he was on board ship. At Whale Island, in far-off Portsmouth, he had been in his element. In immaculate belt and gaiters, he had shouted and bellowed himself hoarse, until his red face had turned redder, earning him the nickname of ‘Crabface’, among others. He had also drilled potential gunnery officers, one of whom had failed, mainly because he carried his brain in his head and not in his feet. Unfortunately for Chase, that same officer had found himself appointed to drafting duties. Chase could only guess the rest.
Now, to add to his anger, the new Captain didn’t seem to appreciate his smartness and steadying influence in this damned ship. Well, he’d show him all right. He kicked out at a stocky Chinese seaman who was tightening an awning.
“Pull ’arder, you yellow bastard!” he roared, “I’ll ’ave you up on the bridge if I catch you slackin’ again!” That’s the way to treat ’em, he breathed. Thank God, Lieutenant Vincent was aboard. He at least was a proper officer, and if half he’d heard about his influence in high places was true, no doubt he’d put a word in somebody’s ear for him. He arrived at his tiny cubbyhole, imposingly labelled ‘Gunner’s Store’, and after glaring at the seaman who was carefully whitening a pile of webbing gaiters, he proceeded to read his favourite book, the Royal Naval Handbook of Parade and Rifle Drill.
The sky changed from pale blue to golden velvet and from somewhere astern, the beam of a beacon stabbed weakly at the gathering dusk. The gunboat ploughed on, meeting the water with her blunt bow, making it break into a frothing white moustache and letting it ripple and gurgle along her low sides until it met the fierce white flurry shot back by the racing screws. Behind her streamed a long white path, drawn as if by a ruler. A few gulls still screamed and swooped over the stern, and a group of chattering Chinese seamen lounged on the deck, throwing pieces of old food to the competing birds.
In the chart room the air was still hot and oppressive, although both the fans whirred busily above the heads of the occupants, who were jammed sweatily in the small space, watching the Captain. Rolfe pulled a chair out of the wireless room and sat down, conscious of their eyes on the wad of papers which he tossed on to the table. Fallow, his pendulous lip hanging wetly forward, perched uncomfortably on a bench, with Vincent at his side. The latter looked cool by comparison, but his eyes were dark and tense.
The three Chief Petty Officers stood bunched awkwardly together in the other corner, an ill-assorted trio. Louch, blotchy with heat from the engine-room, stood dwarfed by the others, his narrow head cocked on one side as if listening to some strange noise in the steady beat below his feet. Chase, as usual, was at attention, his square jaw clamped tight, his mean eyes devoid of understanding and compassion. Herridge on the other hand, looked calm and confident, and was watching the Captain through narrowed lids. He had heard of Rolfe’s past, but, unlike the others, had known him before the court-martial. It had been while Herridge was a Leading Seaman in a destroyer of which Rolfe had been the Navigating Officer. A good and efficient officer, he mused, as he studied Rolfe’s taut face. Better looking now, too. No wonder he had got engaged to that model, or whatever she was, who had visited the ship once. What an eyeful she was. What had gone wrong? he wondered. Then, as Rolfe sank into the chair, he dismissed the matter from his mind, conjecture could wait, let’s get on with this job first.
Rolfe let his eyes flit around the expectant faces, and cleared his throat. “Before I start,” he began quietly, “I just want to say that I’m extremely sorry I’ve not been given the time to get to know you a bit better. Normally, of course, I should have had a longer take-over period, during which time I should have got a fairly clear picture of the whole ship. However, we are as we are, and we have a job to do.” He dropped his eyes to the papers, aware that Fallow was licking his lips, and his big hands had started to beat his knees in a steady rhythm.
“I’m afraid that I’ve got a bit of a shock for you,” he continued, “and the work we have to do is rather more intricate than I imagined it might be.” He paused, conscious that he now had their full attention. “I’ll make it short as I can, we can gen up on the other details later. Our ultimate destination is Santu, on the thirtieth parallel. It’s about twelve hundred miles steaming, so we should be there in five days.”
Louch frowned, his mind working busily on fuel, water and a multitude of mechanical details.
“The island, as you probably realize, is independent, and governed by one of the old Nationalist generals, Ch’en-Pei. It now seems likely that the Communists are going to take over the island,” he tapped the papers. “It’s not yet known whether it’ll be by force or by inner subversion, and in any case that’s not our main concern. There is a small British community there, mostly concerned with running the island’s tea and timber industries, and our job is to evacuate them in the Wagtail. I understand that to mean about a dozen people at the most. This ship has been chosen because she can handle the job better than anything else. The harbour’s only a few feet deep, and a frigate or something of the sort would have to anchor offshore, and the whole operation would be more obvious and complicated. The great thing will be to take it quietly and calmly. I shall see what is to be done and you must make it your job to keep the thing on a routine basis. No panic, no rumours, and no show of force. Neither our people, nor the Americans want any trouble over the island, and in fact, the Americans do not yet know of our task.” He paused again, watching their faces. Fallow seemed to have paled, and Vincent was smiling sardonically. “However, between now and our E.T.A. at Santu, I want to bring this ship up to a war footing. This job will be a test to us all, and we must be ready to meet every eventuality.” He studied a carefully prepared list. “So far, this is what I want. Number One. I want you to check every piece of upper deck gear, starting with the stern anchor and working right through. Chief Herridge will, of course, assist you. Pay particular attention to both of the boats. Lieutenant Vincent. You will check all the additional stores which were brought aboard, and ensure that we can deal fully with all the needs of our passengers. Chief Petty Officer Chase.”
“Sah!” The heels banged together.
“Your department is most important.” He watched the man rise to the offering, the piggy face flush with pleasure. “I shall want you to exercise both guns’ crews from now on, until you’re satisfied. All night, if necessary. Are your magazines O.K.?”
Chase mentally rubbed his hands. “Perfect, sir!” His mouth snapped importantly.
“And you, Chief,” he dropped his gaze to Louch. “I won’t try to tell you anything. Except to be ready for every eventuality, and then give me all the speed you can manage!”
Louch smiled dourly. That was a language he understood. “I’ll do just that, sir,” he murmured.
Rolfe leaned back, glad to have got it off his chest, and wondering how he had whittled down eight pages of instructions in to a few minutes talk.
“Any questions?” he asked.
Fallow swallowed hard, his face working
anxiously. “Well, sir,” he began, his voice unsteady, “it sounds easy enough. But will these people want to leave? I mean, sir, s’pose they don’t want to be evacuated?” His eyes were clouded with fear.
“They’ll leave,” answered Rolfe confidently. He had, in fact, been asking himself the same question over and over again since he had opened the orders. It seemed to be the major obstacle to the whole operation. No point in adding to Fallow’s misery, he concluded.
Vincent stirred his long legs. “If we run into trouble, sir,” he shot a glance at Fallow meaningly, “what are our chances?”
Rolfe eyed him thoughtfully before answering. “Depends on the stage of the operation,” he said at length. “Inshore, or in Santu itself, we’re on our own. We can, however, whistle up fresh forces once we’re clear of the mainland.” It’d be too late then, he thought.
“I see, sir.” Vincent smiled slowly. “It’s one hell of a responsibility for you, isn’t it, sir?” he drawled.
“It is no more than I would expect from any one of you,” snapped Rolfe. But inwardly he cursed Vincent for baring the thought which was uppermost in his mind. Suppose the people had planned it this way? The plan might be sound, but just suppose things started to go wrong. Rolfe knew only too well that a scapegoat might be required to placate the governments and authorities involved. Maybe this wasn’t just a chance to save his career, but an opportunity to save the face of some miserable politician. He shut his mind to the nagging fear, and concentrated on Herridge who was speaking in his rich, clear voice.
“—and I was thinking it might not be advisable to allow shore leave for a bit, sir, until we know the true situation in Santu. I hope you don’t mind me mentioning that, sir?”
“Not at all. I see you’ve not altered much since I last knew you! Still as forthright as ever!”
The others stared at Herridge with wonder, and he flushed with pleasure. So he hadn’t forgotten after all, he thought.
“Right then, starting tomorrow, a full routine!” He eyed them separately, his clear eyes thoughtful. “And another thing, I fully realize that some of you are leaving either the ship or the service in the near future, but I want you to clear it from your minds completely, and concentrate on the job in hand. Completely, understand?” He stood up, and they murmured their assents.
As he left the chart room, and headed for his cabin, he said over his shoulder, “Officer-of-the-Watch, alter course as I’ve shown on the new chart, at twenty-two hundred!” The door closed.
Vincent, who was the O.O.W., pushed his way back to the wheelhouse, and Louch slid quietly in the direction of his engine-room. The others stared at each other. Herridge was the first to speak.
“Should be quite a party, eh, sir? Something to remember China by!” He grinned hugely, showing his strong teeth.
Chase scratched his head, pouting. “We ain’t got much to fight with, if the gooks show up!”
“Never mind, Tom, you just give ’em a bit of square-bashin’, that’ll fix ’em!” he laughed again.
Fallow stared into nothingness, his mind jumping from one possible disaster to the next. Mary won’t know about this, he groaned, she’ll be expecting a letter, and if something goes wrong. He chilled, it’ll be in the papers before we’re back. If we get back. He twisted his hands together, locking and turning the fat fingers in time with his agony. These fools didn’t understand. They didn’t realize what the Captain was really like, and he was going to be the one they’d have to depend on. And this ship. He glared round like a trapped animal. What good would the poor little Wagtail be? The murdering swine, he thought wildly. I’ll never get home now. Never. And Mary will—he lurched to his feet, “Christ!” he said aloud. The others looked at him with amazement.
“They’re mad, I tell you!” He waved his arms desperately. “Mad! If we get caught by some Commie ships, we’ll never make it, don’t you see?” He stared at them wildly.
“We’ll manage, sir,” Herridge’s voice was calm. “If you’ll show us what to do, we’ll manage!” He watched, as his words seemed to pull Fallow in to some sort of order.
“Of course, yes, of course,” mumbled Fallow vaguely, and stumbled out of the room.
Chase’s florid face wrinkled into a frown. “We’ll be O.K., won’t we, Wilf?”
Herridge clapped him across the shoulder. “Sure we will!” But as they groped their way down the ladder to their mess, he was thinking furiously. If anything blows up on this job, we’ll be about as popular as a pork chop in a synagogue, he decided.
* * * * *
“Three minutes that time, sir!” Vincent screwed up his eyes against the sun’s glare, as he peered up at the bridge, watching the Captain’s impassive face. All morning, as the Wagtail pushed her way forward across the empty sea, they had been lowering the boats as far as the waterline and hoisting them again, while Rolfe timed the proceedings with his watch. Vincent had given the orders so often, that he had lost all count of time, and was conscious only of the glare and his dry and aching throat.
Rolfe’s eyes, hidden by his sun-glasses, watched the little scene below him, his attention only half on what Vincent had been saying. For two days, and one morning now, they had been at sea and every available hour had been spent at exercises, as he had promised. At first it had seemed a hopeless task, and he had almost been tempted to give up the struggle. After all, he told himself repeatedly, how can you make a decrepit old gunboat, with a half-trained crew, behave like a modern frigate? Especially when most of the people in responsibility aboard were either incompetent, or disinterested. He shook his head. No. That was a stupid attitude to take. They were willing enough, but it was just that the men had been allowed to decay gently, like the ship.
He was again aware of Vincent’s hot face below him. “Very good,” he nodded. “Secure the boats!” And as Vincent’s tense body slumped thankfully, he added sharply, “But we’ll have it in two minutes tomorrow!”
He watched the boats being swung inboard. They might prove to be very useful in an emergency, and half-trained Chinese seamen would be useless without this sort of exercise. They were interesting boats. Not whalers or motor-boats in the accepted naval fashion, but two twenty-five foot sampans, one fitted with an indifferent engine, and the other with oars. With their queer twin keels and a draft of only a few inches, they would skim over any mud bank.
Vincent’s voice, harsh with exertion, rang clearly across the burning teak planking of the deck.
“Avast heaving there! You! Whatsyourname! Lin Ki is it? Well put your back into it in future!” There was a pause, then, “Right, hoist away!”
Rolfe smiled slightly. All this work had, if nothing else, kept his officers too busy to get on each other’s nerves.
“Tea, Captain-sir!” Chao, clad only in a large pair of spotless shorts, was watching him gravely, a tray in his hands.
Rolfe sank down on a signal locker, and drank gratefully, throwing his cap and sun-glasses in a corner. It was peaceful in the wheelhouse, and it enabled him to go over his preparations without interruption. He found that by standing most of the forenoon and afternoon watches himself, he was able to keep Fallow and Vincent more usefully employed at their checking and training duties.
“Very nice, Chao,” he said, putting down the cup. “You’re a big help to me.”
Chao smiled happily. “Will Captain-sir be requiring drinks this evening?”
Rolfe turned his face away. It was odd how easy it had been to keep off the whisky once he had got swamped by this sea of work and planning. All the same, it would be nice to have just one quiet drink with his dinner, in the seclusion of his cabin. He tortured himself for a while, and then shook his head. “Not just yet, Chao. Too much to do!”
He stared unseeingly at the boy’s thin shoulders, as he padded away to his pantry, thinking of Sylvia again. She often crept back into his mind, usually at night, as he lay sweating on his bunk, unable to sleep. The more her memory tried to torment him, the more he drove hi
mself, and the more he suffered.
Even Chase had lost pounds in weight, he thought, running hither and thither about the ship, usually followed by steel-helmeted seamen, either warding off imaginary boarders, or preparing for a landing party with all the clutter of rifles and signalling equipment rattling along behind them. Even as the thought crossed his mind, Chase’s bull-like roar shattered the quiet of the battery deck. He was having another try at the Oerlikon gun apparently.
“Nah then, Ferguson, you long streak of ’addock water!” Ferguson was one of the Quartermasters, who also did duty as gunner on the Oerlikon, and he was so tall and fantastically thin, that he could never move an inch about the vessel without either banging his head or tripping over some object or other. “Jus’ short bursts, that’s all I want! Not poopin’ off the ’ole ruddy magazine!”
There was a faint splash, as another empty crate plopped over the stern, and as it bobbed farther and farther behind on the shimmering white wake, Ferguson squinted through the ring-sight with rapidly watering eyes.
Send a Gunboat (1960) Page 6
