Send a Gunboat (1960) (34 page)

Vincent spoke flatly from the wheelhouse. “We are closing first island, sir. We are inside Chinese waters now!”

Rolfe watched the destroyer narrowly through the glasses. “Hold your course!”

The Chinese captain was anticipating that, he thought. Just waiting for us to pull away, and then. And then, what?

The islands, yellow and green in the sunlight, were so many and so closely bunched that it was impossible to determine the channels between them. From the gunboat they looked like part of the coast itself. He caught his breath as a small orange flash darted from the destroyer’s grey shape, and seconds later the dull boom of the gun echoed across the glittering water.

Rolfe counted automatically, and as he watched, a tall waterspout rose high in the sea, about a hundred yards ahead.

“First shot. Half a cable, at Red-one-five!” The range-finder’s expressionless voice might have been noting the score at a darts match.

The two ships moved on, their courses practically parallel, while Rolfe watched the islands, and waited. The seconds passed, and then the minutes. He felt the sweat gathering at his waist and running freely down his arms.

Fallow’s voice from above was hushed. “They’re holdin’ their fire, sir. What are they playin’ at?”

“Listening!” Rolfe’s voice was flat and uncompromising. “They’re waiting for us to start wirelessing for assistance.” He paused. “And when we don’t, they’ll know it’s safe to go ahead!”

Fallow’s head disappeared, and Rolfe frowned. He had wanted to reassure Fallow, but the false words had eluded him.

“How are the islands, Vincent? Are we still closing?”

It seemed an age before he replied, and his voice shook. “First one on the starboard quarter now, sir. There are the next little group opening up on the bow.” He faltered. “Those shoals marked on the chart are visible, too!”

He could see the destroyer clearly now. The range was about three miles. Something told him it was time to act.

“Tell engine-room, full emergency!” His voice was a metallic rasp in the still air.

He felt the bridge trembling and the wake frothed and mounted under the low stern.

There it was! A ripple of four flashes along the grey hull and the louder crash of heavy guns following quickly behind.

“Hard a-starboard!”

“Hard a-starboard, sir,” repeated the helmsman, “thirty-five of starboard wheel on!”

As the triple rudders bit into the surging water, the flat-bottomed gunboat tacked round like an experienced boxer. Even as she turned, the calm sea was torn apart by the tangled, leaping walls of spray. The four shells landed as one and amidst the din and the roar of cascading water, Rolfe heard Vincent cry out involuntarily.

“Midships! Steer Two-seven-oh!” He watched the swinging compass repeater and then stepped into the wheelhouse, slamming the steel door behind him. He cursed the inadequacy of the observation vents and rested his glasses on the warm metal, conscious of the sour taste in his throat.

Again the roar of distant gunfire pommelled his eardrums, and once more the salvo clawed towards the twisting gunboat.

Vincent turned his agonized face from the front of the bridge. “God! We’re almost on those rocks!”

“Signalman, read back the reports from the echo-sounder, directly they’re passed to you!”

Randal, the signalman, his face screwed up with concentration, held his ear against the voice pipe.

“Six fathoms!” he reported almost at once.

Rolfe pushed past Vincent and watched the unbroken line of reefs ahead of him. The gleaming necklace of rocks seemed to clash with the placid island beyond, and the mottled sheen on the shallow water.

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.”