Send a Gunboat (1960) (16 page)

The white uniforms of the ratings stood out in the whirling stream of confusion and pain, like an island of sanity and order, and without question, the soldiers redoubled their efforts under the watchful eye of the tall, grim-faced Herridge.

Rolfe pressed on up the road, trying to remember his way through the labyrinth of alleys and side streets. People jostled him blindly and he had a continuous impression of gaping faces and terrified eyes, and above all, the rising wave of panic.

An old woman, her sunken face running with tears, blocked his path, her gnarled hands clutching at his arm and her toothless mouth uttering a persistent hysterical gabble of words, which he could only guess at. He gripped her thin shoulders firmly and looked down at her frantic face.

“I don’t know what you’re saying, Mother,” he said quietly, “but I know what you mean.” His calm voice had some effect, for she searched his face in wonder, her sunken eyes looking for fresh assurance. But Rolfe released her and forced his way through the press of bodies in the narrow street.

A group of men stood staring at a woman kneeling on the ground, her hands like claws in her black hair, and her slim body rocking slowly from side to side. Rolfe didn’t have to hear her wailing tones, her desperate lament, to know the reason for her grief.

A twisted, fire-blackened corpse, its face gone completely, lay by her knees, the clothing still smouldering, the stench of charred cloth mingling with that of burned flesh.

It was almost a relief to break through into the coast road and to feel the sea’s caress again, but as he broke into a run through the scattered fishermen’s huts, his stomach contorted suddenly, and his feet faltered. The hospital, at first glance
untouched, was still as he had remembered it, but across the front wall was a savage pattern of round holes.

He brushed aside two gesticulating men and ran panting up the sandy slope, for once unconscious of the sweat pouring from his body, and the heat, made more suffocating by the dense pall of smoke, which like a death-pall, lay everywhere.

He burst into the long waiting-room and almost fell headlong over a still shape by the door. As he blinked his smarting eyes he saw that every inch of the floor was filled with motionless bodies, some with their faces relaxed and dark, as if already dead, and others, whose bright, bead-like eyes followed his approach like helpless birds. As he groped his way forward, one of the bodies arched itself in the shape of a bent bow and emitted a spine-chilling scream. Those near it twisted their packed limbs as if trying to disassociate themselves from this surrender to pain. The man, for man it had once been, screamed again, the whites of his eyes shining starkly in the sunlight which streamed through the holes made by the bullets. The rough bandage across his chest burst open and a deluge of blood flooded on to the floor. The man relaxed and stared in amazement as his life gushed away. Then with a shudder he dropped back, his mouth open in an unfinished grin. A silence fell once more and Rolfe retched at the smell of fear and vomit which pressed on him from every side.

Somehow he got across the room without treading on anyone and reached the door of Dr. Felton’s surgery. He hung on to the handle, not daring to think of what he might find. Beyond the door a girl cried out in pain and the next second Rolfe had the door open and was in the surgery.

Felton was struggling with a twisting body on the rough operating table, while his servant repeatedly tried to bandage the girl’s foot, which to Rolfe’s eyes, looked as if it was hanging by a mere thread. The sheets on the table were torn and bloody, and Felton himself was glistening with exertion and what seemed like near-exhaustion.

“Here, let me!” Rolfe stepped forward and pressed the girl’s shoulders flat on the table, while Felton straightened up in surprise. His ghastly face twisted into what might have been a smile, and then he ducked round the table to his patient’s foot.
Rolfe saw the girl’s face darken with pain and her eyes rolled upwards until only the whites showed. “For God’s sake! Haven’t you got any anaesthetics?” he gasped.

Felton jerked and twisted, and Rolfe sickened as he heard something drop into an enamel bowl. “Used ’em all! Not a ruddy thing left!” He stood up and felt the girl’s pulse. He nodded and dashed the sweat from his eyes. “Good! She’s still with us!” Then over his shoulder he shouted hoarsely, “Judith! I’ve finished with this one! Come and give Chu a hand with her!”

Rolfe stood back from the table, his mouth suddenly dry, staring at the door. She was all right. She was safe. In this nightmare place, with death and suffering all round, and the terrible mangled mask of Dr. Felton, he had hardly dared to hope! The door swung back and she hurried towards him.

The untidy smock swirled round her and he felt real pain at the sight of the dark smears across it and the stains on her small hands. She had her arm under the girl’s head before her glance settled on him, and even then she seemed unable to clear the mistiness from her wide eyes.

Felton coughed weakly, beating his chest with his fist. “Good girl. Not many more now!” His good eye winked. “The Captain’s back, Judith! He’s working for me now!”

Rolfe reached out shakily and gently eased her arm from the table. “Here, I’ll do that! Just show me what to do.”

She smiled suddenly and Rolfe realized that she had been very close to tears, and lifted her small chin defiantly. “I’m so glad you could come!” she said softly, and staring down at her stained gown she grimaced, her slim shoulders suddenly tired. “What a mess I must look!”

“When you’ve both finished!” Felton’s voice was amused. “Would you mind fetching the next one in, please?”

Rolfe laid the body which had been nearest the door across the table and looked round desperately. “Have you any paper?”

Felton pointed to the littered desk. “Help yourself. Going to write to the United Nations?”

Rolfe scribbled a message on a sheet of writing-paper. “Could you have this sent to the ship? I have told my First Lieutenant to supply the bearer with a case of medical equipment. I thought
it might help!” he added hastily, in case Felton’s iron pride got the better of his judgement.

Felton was already examining his new patient. “Chu! Go to the gunboat with the message. Give to officer and bring back medicine!” And as the little man scuttled away he reached out awkwardly and touched Rolfe’s sleeve. “Thanks!” he said shortly.

Judith had been watching them, and as Rolfe looked up at her he noticed that her huge eyes were brimming with tears. But as she ran from the room he saw also that there was a small smile on her soft mouth.

They worked on in silence until Chu returned with the heavy metal box, and then Felton examined the contents with dull satisfaction. “Not bad at all!” he breathed softly. “It’ll come in very handy!”

“I’m only sorry we haven’t got a doctor aboard to give you a hand.”

“I can manage!” Felton’s voice contained something of his old harshness, and he stooped over the gasping body on the table. “These poor devils are used to hardship!”

Judith hurried in with a tray of dressings and darted a quick glance at her brother. “Only half a dozen more,” she murmured gently. “They are just minor injuries.”

Rolfe watched her with a feeling of growing tenderness and a new sensation, which cleared his mind of weakness.

As she moved softly out to the waiting-room, Felton remarked distantly, “Good girl, I don’t know how I’d manage without her!”

“She’s beautiful!” The words came out before he could stop them, but for a moment he didn’t think the other man heard him.

“Yin Fong Leung.” Felton’s voice was dreamy. “That’s what the people round here call her.”

“What does that mean?”

Felton paused in his work, his eye studying Rolfe’s face with close scrutiny. “Fragrant and Beautiful Flower,” he answered quietly.

Rolfe dropped his gaze, and although his hands remained steady, his heart pounded uncontrollably. He knew now that
whatever happened, the visit to Santu had been more than worthwhile. It was a hope for a new future.

* * * * *

Lieutenant Fallow watched the little man scurry across the gangway clutching the first-aid box. What the hell was happening at the hospital? he wondered. Perhaps the Captain would be back soon. He shook his head vaguely and tried to bring his attention to what Leading Seaman Davidson was saying about the baggage being stowed. Two shooting brakes had just arrived on the jetty and some of the seamen were loading an assortment of boxes and wooden crates into the open hatchway leading to the forward storeroom.

It was an easy task, with no onlookers, as every single soul in the town seemed to be occupied elsewhere on other matters. He pulled at his ear impatiently as Davidson tapped at his pencilled list. “An’ if that lot’s personal gear, sir, I’ll eat my bloomin’ ‘at!” he said scornfully.

“Well, I s’pect they’ve collected quite a lot of stuff over the years,” began Fallow severely, and then his eye fell on Chase, who was ushering Charles Masters and his young wife down from the jetty. He groaned, the first blasted passengers had arrived.

Masters looked pale and was clutching his wife’s arm tightly. “Oh—er—I hope we’re not too early?” He gazed round him, as if seeking somewhere to hide. “We’ve sent our baggage along already.”

Fallow forced a smile. “Captain says you’re to make yerselves at ‘ome. I’m afraid all the ladies will be sleeping together in the officers’ cabins and the men’ll ’ave to make do in the Chief Petty Officers’ mess. I ‘ope that’ll suit you?”

He beckoned Chase urgently with his hand. “Show these people to the wardroom, an’ tell the stewards to fix ’em up!”

As they moved away he heard Anthea Masters whisper loudly, “He looked very worried, darling! Do you think everything is going as expected?”

Fallow cursed and removed his cap to mop at his perspiring head. Blast them! Why did his fear show so clearly? He peered at the town and saw that the flames had practically cleared. Only the black smoke remained to mark the attack. High on the cliff,
the fort stood aloof and untouched, the banner still fluttering limply. Fallow shook his fist in sudden anger. “Damn you, too!” he mouthed. “If it wasn’t fer you, we wouldn’t be ’ere!”

He dropped his arm in embarrassment as he caught sight of the telegraphist, Little, gaping from the wheelhouse.

“Signal from C.-in-C., sir.”

“Well, read it, boy!” Fallow brought out his gruffest tone to cover his agitation.

Little frowned at the signal. “From Commander-in-Chief. Re your one-one-three-six, stroke zero nine,” he read, “concur. Your request re other duties denied.”

Fallow pieced the jargon together in his aching mind. So the Admiral didn’t want the
Wagtail
to get mixed up in any air battles, eh? Thank God for that. Let ’em fight their own bloody wars! he thought savagely. Always runnin’ down the British, and yet they always whine fer us when they’re in a bit of trouble! A feeling of remorse struck him, as some new scream of anguish rose from the direction of the town. He rubbed his hands together worriedly. If only we can get out of here without something else happening! It was like a prayer from inside his heart.

He stared along the jetty as Herridge and his small party marched wearily into view. Their white uniforms were stained and blackened and the eyes of the Chinese seamen were downcast and dull with shock. Even Herridge was tight-lipped and strained.

Fallow tried to find comfort from Herridge’s return, to seek some small feeling of security. But instead, he found only the sickness of fear.

Herridge entered his mess and hung up his cap and pistol with slow, deliberate movements. He glanced round at the familiar objects, the austere arm-chairs and bookshelves, Louch’s fishing rod, and a small selection of garish pin-ups over Chase’s locker.

Louch eyed him steadily from his prone position on the couch. He grunted and heaved himself upright, his skinny shoulders hunched over the table. Still without speaking, he removed a clean napkin, which had served as a cover for three glasses. Three glasses of rum for the
Wagtail’s
Chief Petty Officers.

Herridge slumped in a chair and picked up his glass, staring moodily at the dark contents.

“Here’s looking at you, Bill!” He tossed it back, enjoying the rich power as it ran through him.

“Reckon you needed it!” Louch’s beaky face creased into a wry smile. “What was it like ashore?”

“Bloody! The poor devils didn’t know what hit ’em!”

“I suppose they’ve never had a touch of real civilized warfare before?” Louch sipped his rum pensively. “There’ll be a lot more where that came from, I’m thinking!”

Herridge tensed as the door banged open, and Chase clumped noisily to the table. He grabbed his glass and smacked his lips. “Cor! Just wot I need! I’ve ’ad a bellyfull up there, I can tell yer!”

“It must have been hell!” nodded Louch sarcastically.

Chase perched his plump body on the table and frowned. He always frowned when he was trying to gauge the contents of his colleagues’ remarks. “Poor ol’ Jimmy-the-One is fair bustin’ a gut up top!” he added with obvious relish. “As an orficer ’e’d make a ruddy fine plumber, I should think!”

“Well, keep those thoughts to yourself!” Herridge’s blue eyes flickered menacingly. “Old Fallow’s got a lot on his plate at the moment!”

Chase stared at him in surprise. “Gettin’ in with the orficers already, eh? You ’aven’t got your bit of gold lace yet, yer know!”

Herridge’s sturdy body bounded from the chair in one quick movement and his leathery face was only inches from the other man’s sweating forehead. “Say that again, Tom,” he said conversationally, “and I’ll ram that bloody book of rifle drill down your fat, stupid neck!”

They stayed motionless until Chase flushed even redder and sidled off the table. “’Ere, stow it, Wilf!” he muttered uneasily. “Take a joke, can’t yer?”

The crow’s-feet round the Cornishman’s eyes wrinkled suddenly, and he winked at Louch, who had been watching the battle of wills with bird-like interest. “Fine one to criticize old Fallow, eh? The Admiral won’t even let him fire his pretty guns! Reckon he must know what bloody poor shots his gunners are!”