Send a Gunboat (1960)

by Reeman, Douglas

  He forgot the chart and tried to memorize the details of the islands.

  “Four fathoms, sir!”

  Rolfe forced himself to concentrate on the rocks, and with his eye he tried to estimate the distance between each wave-washed tooth.

  “Port twenty!” The bows seemed to take a year to respond. He waited until they were practically masking the narrow strip of water between two of the reefs, then, “Midships! Steer straight for that gap!”

  Leading Seaman Davidson leaned heavily on the polished spokes of the wheel, his narrowed eyes peering ahead. What gap? he thought desperately. We’ll never make it!

  “Three fathoms, sir!” The voice trembled.

  The sea erupted into a blinding flash as a shell struck one of the rocks. Rolfe gritted his teeth and darted a glance at the helmsman, as something clanged against the shutters.

  The hull of the gunboat quivered as if dealt a body blow.

  The helmsman hissed between his teeth. He had practically lost sight of the tiny gap in the rocks, it had been blotted out by the overhanging bow. So great was his sweating concentration that Rolfe noticed that he didn’t even quiver as the shell splinter screamed away across the bridge.

  “Two fathoms, sir!” It was like a death chant.

  “Christ! Turn back! You’ll kill us all!” Rolfe turned to face the screaming face. “We can’t get through there! You’ll smash the ship to pieces!” Vincent’s face had collapsed completely.

  “’Ere we go!” Leading Seaman Davidson’s voice was a mere rasp.

  Rolfe ignored Vincent and sprang to the side of the bridge, to stare at the line of rocks skimming along the side of the ship. He ran to the other side, almost knocking Vincent down, and saw that they were passing between the gap, with barely feet to spare.

  “One fathom, sir!” the signalman reported stubbornly, his voice weak.

  Rolfe caught the helmsman’s eye. “We’re through, sir!”

  Rolfe nodded, watching the distorted shapes of sunken rocks passing along and under the ship. They were less than four feet under the keel.

  “Hard a-starboard!” he snapped, and the Wagtail strained valiantly round on her invisible pivot. The deserted beach of the nearest island was rushing to meet them.

  He straightened the ship’s creaming wake and called up Fallow on the voice pipe. Vincent was watching him with the eyes of a madman.

  “Where’s the target?”

  “She’s ’auled off, sir!” Fallow’s voice was shaking. “I thought we was goin’ on that load of rock, sir! I thought you’d been ’it, or somethin’.”

  Rolfe smiled in spite of himself. “Not quite, Number One! Now watch for the gap between the next island and get ready to fire just as soon as you get the chance. Concentrate on her bridge, if you can!”

  The gulls and cormorants rose screaming and flapping from the beaches in a white cloud, as the strange craft thrashed recklessly along the narrow channel, and once, Rolfe saw a group of running figures darting between the trees. This will be something for them to remember, he thought. It was like a rabbit twisting and turning through the labyrinth of its burrow, with the ferret sniffing and scratching at every opening and exit.

  The small island towered above them, and he tried to estimate the destroyer’s approximate position on the seaward side. They would be coming to the end of the island soon, and there was another wide gap of open, shallow water to cross before the gunboat could find cover and temporary safety amongst the next scattered group.

  He snapped his fingers impatiently without lowering his eyes from the green and blue patchwork of the channel. “Depth, man, depth!”

  “Two fathoms, sir!”

  He was sweating freely now, and felt strangely light-headed. The depth of water was only a narrow margin of safety. At any second an unmarked and hidden reef might tear out the bottom of the charging gunboat, like a knife cutting through cheese.

  “Oh, God! Why doesn’t it stop?” Vincent’s strangled voice was close to Rolfe’s ear and he started with surprise. In the excitement and danger he had all but forgotten him.

  “Hold your course!” he snapped to the helmsman, and moving swiftly, he jerked Vincent by the arm and led him roughly into the chart room.

  For a moment he stood glaring at this wreck of a man, half of him wanting to deal reasonably and patiently, and the other half screaming out at himself to get back to the bridge, begrudging every second of wasted pity.

  “Vincent! You’ve got to get hold of yourself!” He spoke harshly, his eyes holding the other man’s frightened gaze. “It’s your only chance! Do you understand?”

  Vincent swallowed nervously and with cold deliberation, Rolfe struck him hard across the cheek with the back of his hand. Vincent fell back against the chart table, his hand fluttering against his reddening face. His eyes were still filled with fear, but the fear was fresh, and Rolfe knew it was because of him. He lifted his fist again, and Vincent cowered back, his mouth quivering.

  “Well? Are you ready?” The grey eyes flashed with rage. “Or do I have to kill you first?”

  Vincent nodded violently. “I’ll try, sir! I’ll try!”

  Rolfe turned his back and ran back to his position, with Vincent following dazedly behind.

  When Rolfe issued his next orders, his voice was calm and detached, as if he had never moved.

  “Inform the guns to stand by to fire immediately we clear the land and sight the target!” He waited, his mind stilled, as Vincent’s unsteady voice passed the instructions.

  He spoke to the bridge at large. “We should be in the open again for about ten minutes. That’ll give us time to have a shot or two at them.” He could feel Vincent’s eyes watching him as if mesmerized. “The destroyer still can’t get at us in these shallow waters, but she’ll have a good try to finish us off the moment we show ourselves!”

  The yellow beach started to curl away, and the sheltered water began to widen. The open sea and the distant horizon sparkled with quiet malice, and every eye was watching the widening gap, every heart pounding faster with each beat of the racing propellers.

  Above his head Rolfe heard the clank of metal, and in his mind he could see the gunners crouched around their puny weapon.

  The edge of the island fell clear, and in the sunlight the green slope seemed to harden, but as they watched, they recognized the sharp stem of the waiting ship.

  The world exploded as the six-pounder barked its challenge, and close behind it came the staccato rattle of the Oerlikon. The bridge rocked and echoed with the trapped noise, and the stench of cordite made their eyes smart and their throats contract.

  Again and again the guns crashed out and the hoarse commands and range orders mingled with the clang of empty shell cases on the steel platform and the sharp clicks of the breech block.

  The destroyer’s hull was masked by the flame and smoke of her own guns, and Rolfe jammed his smarting eyes into the eyepieces of his glasses, taking in the long, threatening shape, the squat funnel, and the long guns, which seemed to be pointing directly at him.

  The weaving gunboat was shrouded and straddled by the tall columns of water, and the hull bounced and shuddered as the heavy shells hissed and screamed into the water around her.

  The destroyer turned slightly as if to intercept them, and then swung away. Her echo-sounder must have warned her of the danger just in time. In that brief moment of manoeuvring, her guns fell silent, and Rolfe heard a scattered cheer as a bright flash lit up the rear of her bridge.

  One hit to us! One tiny pinprick. But it will give them something to think about.

  All the air and light was sucked from the bridge with the ease of a pump drawing water. One moment Rolfe was listening to the cheers and watching the next group of islands, and the next he was staring at a line of rivets in the grey-painted plating. He tried to concentrate, and as his shattered mind cleared, he realized that he was lying full length on the deck, his face against the steel bulkhead.

  He pressed
his hands on the deck and tried to lever himself to his knees. He could feel the pain in his ribs where he had fallen, but he could hear nothing.

  Vacantly he stared round the smoke-filled wheelhouse, his eyes and mind registering a slow jumbled mass of terrible detail.

  The wheel clinked gently from side to side, unattended and loose, and Rolfe seized the shoulder of the helmsman, who was twisted into an untidy heap beneath the compass.

  The sudden urgency of what had happened made Rolfe stagger wildly to the front of the bridge, where he clung breathless to the shutter, and stared at the deck beneath him. The flat fo’c’sle deck had gone completely. There was only a wide, blackened hole reaching from one side of the ship to the other, leaving the bows and anchors marooned in a tiny island. The guardrails and plating of the hull were bent and twisted, like plants wilted by the heat. He stared at the great gaping gash left by the shell, and through the black smoke and evil-smelling vapour he saw the glint of water.

  We’re done for! He choked back the flood of fury and despair which rose unrestrainedly in his aching throat. As he tried to pull his wits together, his hearing began to creep back, and with it came a torrent of disjointed and terrifying sounds from all around him. Voice pipes rattled and shouted, and somewhere he heard a high-pitched scream, which rose and fell with a terrible persistence.

  The helmsman staggered to his feet, his face white and shocked. Without looking at Rolfe, he grabbed the spokes of the wheel and spun them cautiously in his hands.

  “Course, sir?” He could hardly get the words out.

  Rolfe jerked his head towards the peaceful islands, realizing for the first time that the engines were still throbbing, although with a different beat. “Keep straight for the next island!”

  He staggered to the demanding, screaming voice pipes, noting as he went that Vincent was slowly rising to his feet. Their eyes met, and Vincent smiled, his teeth gleaming strangely through the dust on his face.

  Rolfe called up the gun’s crew. “Report damage!”

  He was surprised to hear Chase’s voice from the other end of the brass pipe.

  “Gun still in action, sir! Lieutenant Fallow’s been ‘it! An’ there’s a good bit of damage forrard!”

  “Very good! Carry on firing!”

  He fumbled with the engine-room speaker. “You all right Chief? Is that bulkhead holding?”

  Louch sounded tired and far away. “Aye, sir! But one engine has packed up for the moment. I’ve got my men working on it, an’ I think some of the fuel pipes have been sheared off by a splinter.”

  Rolfe sat silent, watching the Signalman crouched at his station. Poor Fallow, he thought suddenly. I wonder how bad it is?

  The ship rocked wildly as another shell sliced along the upper deck and exploded harmlessly in the sea beyond. It looked as if a giant branding-iron had been scored right across the decks and had left one wide, blackened trail of damage in its wake.

  One engine only, he thought desperately, watching the helmsman struggle with the wheel, as the gunboat staggered in a twisting, crablike motion, its rudders fighting for mastery over the uneven thrust of the remaining engine.

  “Damage Control Party just gone forrard!” reported the signalman, and he saw Herridge and a handful of seamen ducking and slipping over the shattered deck, their faces turned away as each salvo screamed over their heads.

  Rolfe watched them helplessly, as Herridge and his men began to lower themselves into the gaping crater. He could now hear the deep, pulsating thud of the main pumps, as they fought against the inrushing water. There ought to be an officer with them, he thought. Herridge would have his work cut out just keeping the men at their posts.

  “Vincent! Get forrard! See what you can do, and report damage!”

  Vincent did not reply, and Rolfe waited for some fresh outburst, but instead, the door clanged shut, and a few seconds later he saw Vincent walking slowly along the rim of the shell crater, his hands behind him, as if he was inspecting his division on a Sunday morning.

  Another shell whined across the bridge, and with amazed eyes, Rolfe saw the forward mast plunge over the side, dragging a mass of rigging and halyards after it. The useless wireless aerials clattered and squeaked against the bridge, before they, too, were sucked into the sea.

  Herridge ran to the foot of the bridge, his grimy hands cupped. “Bulkhead’s holding, sir! But quite a large fracture abreast the keel! The pumps are just about holding their own!”

  “Lower the boat, Chief!” Rolfe saw the man’s jaw drop. “Lower it to the waterline, and put all the ship’s awnings in it!” Herridge still hesitated. “Jump, man! I want that boat ready to drop as we come up to the next island!”

  Herridge ran aft to the davits, calling out a string of names. The Wagtail’s canvas awnings were dragged from their racks and laid in the boat by the small, frightened seamen.

  “Engine-room!” Rolfe had to yell above the head-splitting roar of gunfire. “Three drums of oil on deck, at the double! And get it to the boat!”

  A freak shell exploded in the water, and Rolfe gritted his teeth as one of the Chinese seamen running to the boat faltered in his stride and slid to the deck. For some moments he thrashed about wildly, as his white jumper burst open to reveal what looked like a mass of scarlet rubber hose. Before their eyes, the man had been disembowelled by one savage splinter.

  Herridge, tight-lipped, punched a staring seaman in the shoulder. “Don’t stand there like a tart in a trance! Man the falls!”

  The terrified seaman wrenched his eyes from the glistening thing on the deck and ran to the boat.

  The islands opened up their green banks to welcome the Wagtail, as with smoke streaming from her wounds, loose planking and twisted plates dangling from her sides, she wallowed forward to safety.

  Rolfe watched the oil being poured into the boat and soaking into the piled awnings. The boat was lowered until its keel almost skimmed the moving water.

  Come on, old girl! Just hold on! He gripped the rail, as if sharing her pain, as another shell burst under the sagging bow with a blinding flash. When the spray had fallen, he saw with amazement that Vincent still paced stiffly across the unprotected deck.

  The destroyer was gone, hidden again by the little lumps of land. She would be getting ready to finish the job at the next gap.

  “Right? Light the awnings and slip the boat adrift!”

  Herridge moved briskly to the buckled rail. “Stand by! Lower away!”

  The boat yawed sluggishly against the side, and while the axes were still hacking away at the falls, Herridge hurled a lighted rag into the oily mound across the thwarts.

  The next minute the boat had bobbed astern, and when Rolfe craned over the rail to watch, he saw it rocking forlornly in their wash, almost hidden by the great black pall of dense smoke which floated straight up into the bright sky.

  They’ll see that and think it’s us, he mused. It’ll give us a bit of a respite, anyway, if it works!

  The wheelhouse door clanged back as three seamen staggered in and laid their burden across the flag locker.

  Fallow lay back on the coloured bunting, his brown eyes tightly screwed into little islands of pain.

  His face seemed shrunken, and when he tried to speak, Rolfe realized that he must have lost his dentures.

  “Too—bad—sir!” His breath was fast and wheezing. From the rough dressing on his shoulder, Rolfe saw the widening scarlet stain seeping across the outflung arm. “Sorry to leave you like this!” Fallow was still apologizing, and Rolfe dropped to his knee, gripping the man’s hand. It was ice cold.

  “Hold on, Number One! Don’t forget you’re due for a discharge!” He tried to grin, but the expression of misery in Fallow’s eyes made him turn away. “Just lie quiet, Number One.”

  Vincent walked shakily into the wheelhouse, wiping his mouth with a filthy handkerchief.

  “Take over, Vincent!” Rolfe eyed him sharply. “Watch your course! I’m going up top to look at the damag
e!”

  The upper bridge seemed even more unsheltered now that the mast had gone, and he found Chase leaning tiredly against the breech of the gun, his red face heavy with strain.

  One gunner lay at his feet, the inside of his head splashed across Chase’s trousers.

  “Good shooting, Chief!” Rolfe felt his stomach heaving “What happened to Lieutenant Fallow?”

  Chase was staring vacantly at the human wreckage on the deck. “When we was ‘it, sir, a splinter got Mr. Fallow in the shoulder. ’E was up with the range-finder. This is ’im down ’ere!” He cleared the phlegm from his throat. “Gun’s still all right though!” He patted the breech with a beefy hand. “Bloody Chinks!” he added flatly.

  Rolfe noticed that one of the gun-loaders was crying openly, the tears pouring unchecked down his yellow cheeks. Chase looked across at the man. “Stow it! Or I’ll croak you an’ all!” He scowled and the seaman moved miserably away. “Bloody Chinks!” Chase said once more.

  Rolfe slid down the ladder, his eyes checking the pathetic wreckage and damage, which seemed to be confined to the forward part of the ship.

  He waited, as the stewards carried Fallow into his cabin and laid him on the bunk. He didn’t see Judith come from the other cabin, but he found her in his arms, her slim body pressed against him.

  “Is it over? Are we safe?” She stared searchingly at his worn face.

  “Not quite! But we’ve left a decoy in the water for them! I am hoping that the destroyer will try to see what’s back there making all the smoke, and that will give us time to pass the next bit of open sea!”

  “They can’t get at us while we’re amongst these islands, can they?” Her mouth quivered slightly.

  “We shall have to move out eventually, Judith,” he answered slowly. “I’m just fighting for time.”

  She watched Fallow’s heavy breathing, the morphia beginning to take effect. “Is he, is he going to be all right?”

  Rolfe smiled gently. “I am hoping so.” He held her tightly, trying to find words to reassure her.