Send a Gunboat (1960)

by Reeman, Douglas

  He sensed that Chao had padded in behind him.

  “Captain-sir? You not really going ashore?” The voice sounded plaintive.

  “I’m afraid it has to be, Chao. There’s no other way!”

  Chao was silent for a while, but Rolfe could sense him watching his movements in the darkness. He closed the shutter again and switched on the small reading lamp. The boy stood blinking at him, his face wrinkled with worry.

  Rolfe sat on the desk, impatiently glancing at his watch. His eye fell on the small leather case by his side. He opened it slowly and stared at the medal with its faded ribbon.

  “Captain-sir? You take me with you?”

  He ruffled the boy’s spiky hair affectionately. “No, I’m getting into enough trouble as it is!” He snapped the box shut, and laid it on the desk.

  I’m coming for you. The words repeated again and again. He tried to picture her face, but he could only remember her huge eyes and her soft, quiet voice. He took a last glance round the cabin. I shall probably never see it again, he pondered, but better to go this way than to fritter my life away in misery. He opened the door, ignoring the boarded-up radio room and its blackened bulkhead. “So long, Chao! I’ve put a good word in for you in my letter. You’ll get a good billet after this!”

  Chao’s slanting eyes were wet. “I don’t want good billet! I want to serve you!” He clenched his fists desperately.

  Rolfe nodded thoughtfully. “I know what you mean. But,” he shrugged, “you must remember your duty!” He closed the door, cursing himself. Duty—when have you cared about regulations? He sighed and walked loosely on to the bridge, already feeling a stranger amongst the orderly discipline of those on watch.

  “We’re runnin’ in now, sir!” Fallow whispered hoarsely. “First line of rocks are ‘bout a mile on the port bow!”

  The moon was now only a faint gleam, but they could clearly see the thin line of white breakers twisting and writhing in the distance.

  Rolfe watched them and gripped Fallow’s arm in the darkness. “Feel all right, Number One? Not worried, are you?”

  “I can manage the ship, sir. It’s you I’m worried about!”

  Herridge’s head rose above the side of the bridge. “Boat’s lowered, sir! Ready to slip!”

  The telegraphs clanged and the throb of engines died away. For a while the darkened gunboat slid through the black water, leaving a dancing trail of phosphorescence in her wake, and then she rolled uneasily silent on the swell.

  Rolfe and Fallow climbed down to the deck where the sampan had been lowered to the waterline. At a soft command the boat was slipped from the falls and dropped quietly alongside.

  Rolfe sensed that many faces were watching him from the darkened doorways and hatches, and several figures shuffled closer as he moved to the side. Herridge was already in the boat while the oarsmen sat stiffly on the thwarts, their arms folded. It only wants a guard of honour, he thought bleakly, and the scene’ll be complete.

  Ursula Laker stepped forward from the silent figures, her body wrapped in a bridge coat. “Good luck, Captain!” Her voice was low. “I know why you have to go!” She leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth. “Bring her back safely, we’ll be looking for you!” Her tone was marred by the sob in her words.

  Rolfe stared round blindly. He could just make out the blob of Louch’s head peering over the engine-room hatch, while above, by his precious gun, Chase watched in silence.

  He swallowed hard, aware of their loyalty and strange attitude of comradeship which was unique to the navy.

  “I’m off then,” he said sharply. “Have you got the weight, Number One?”

  Fallow smiled, his face split by an automatic answer to the meaningless service jargon. “Aye, aye, sir! I’ve got it!”

  The boat shoved off and Rolfe sat limply in the bows, his back to the fading shape of the Wagtail.

  The oars creaked in the crutches, and the boat moved steadily towards the rocks. Rolfe studied the small compass which he had strapped on his right wrist. No point in swimming round in circles, he thought calmly, but I shall have to watch out for those rocks!

  “Oars!” Herridge hissed the order and the seamen rested at their pulling. Rolfe slid over the gunwale, surprised at the warmness of the water which pulled hungrily at his legs.

  Herridge leaned over the side, his face inches away. “Be careful, sir. None of those madcap doings that you used to get up to in the old days!” His teeth gleamed. “Wish you’d take me with you, sir!”

  Rolfe steadied his breathing in readiness. “Keep an eye on things, Chief!” He wanted to say, try and help Fallow, but he lowered himself fully into the water, his palms resting on the smooth woodwork of the boat.

  “I will, sir!” Then as a sudden afterthought. “He’ll be all right!”

  Rolfe thrust himself away and started to swim strongly, but slowly, between the black rocks. Behind him he heard the oars begin to creak, and when once he trod water and looked back, he found that the sea was empty.

  The sea bottom was uneven and more treacherous than the warning shown on the chart. Sometimes his toes skimmed the sand, and then almost at once he was swimming in a deep gully, the powerful undertow dragging him down. Once he grazed his knee against a rock, and when, eventually, he began to think he had lost his direction, he saw the towering shape of the cliff right ahead, with its small apron of sand gleaming faintly at the bottom.

  He stumbled ashore, alarmed by the apparent noise of the water sloshing from his shoes and the creak of sand under his feet.

  Warily he stared round, his eyes falling on a broken rock pathway which started up the sheer face of the cliff, and then faded out in a series of jagged landfalls. It was the only way up, he decided, but its very appearance of desertion and decay made him feel confident of its being left alone by the Communists, or anyone else for that matter.

  The silence, but for the gentle caress of the sea against the beach, made him feel completely alone and empty inside. It would be quite easy to panic now. I’d better get started, he thought grimly, and with slow caution he groped his way up the steep path. He tried not to look down as the beach grew smaller and more indistinct, and concentrated on selecting his handholds. A piece of stone crumbled from under his fingers and he gritted his teeth as it rattled and banged its way downwards. He waited, his tense body crucified against the rock, waiting for a shout from above, or a shot. Only his heart pounded, and a sleeping gull in a nearby cleft mewed angrily.

  Up and up, his chin tucked into his chest, as loose stones and sand pattered across his face, and his fingers sore and stiff from exertion. A hump of rock jutted temptingly as a final hold, which as far as he could tell, would take him to the top of the cliff. He reached out to the full extent of his arm, feeling the sand slipping under his toes. He breathed fiercely and flung himself sideways, his hand snapping at the rock like a limpet. For a moment, something held him pinioned, his waist was tugged obstinately backwards. He gasped—the revolver, it had caught. As he wriggled to free himself, he felt his belt slacken and then, below his straddled legs, the gun clattered and bounced into the darkness. He scrambled upright on the edge of the cliff. He had made it! He tensed, his nerves tight. He thought he heard a movement somewhere on the cliffs, but as he listened, his breathing slowly returned to normal. All the same, he thought, I’ll have to be careful. It’s quite likely that some people will be about.

  From his new position the plateau opened up at his feet, and from behind the distant hills he heard the sporadic rattle of rifle shots and the occasional yammer of a heavy machine-gun. So it was still in the balance! The Communists were not finding it such an easy victory.

  He consulted the compass. According to the chart, which he had memorized with grim determination, the island was only about four miles wide at this point. Once he got across the hills he would be overlooking the fishing village, and he would be able to by-pass the town and the fort.

  He followed the cliff edge until he could see
a break through the tangled mass of scrub and broken boulders, and then he struck purposefully inland, his rubber shoes slipping and stubbing against the rough surfaces. He found that he was on the extreme end of Laker’s estate, and even by the uncertain moonlight he could see the wide fields sweeping across the plateau and the black gashes of irrigation ditches. The estate halted at the barrier of tangled, unclaimed land, as if Laker had been gathering his forces for a fresh assault on the wilderness to enlarge his property.

  Occasionally, on a hesitant breeze, he picked out the smell of burnt timber and a few sparks still drifted skywards to mark the extent of Laker’s fire.

  Fool, he thought, as he stepped carefully over a fallen trunk, what a nice piece of propaganda the Communists would make out of it. The retreating imperialists making a last effort to deprive the workers of their rights!

  He squinted at the luminous dial of the compass, and as he halted, he felt his damp clothes cold against his skin. It was strange to feel cool again.

  It was darker now, as the trees began to close in on him, and as his feet trod on fallen, rotting twigs and branches, the noise seemed incredibly loud. Each time he stopped to listen, the night was full of strange, unaccountable sounds. The muffled squeak of some disturbed creature or bird, and the distant ripple of a tiny stream from the hills. The trees and bushes were alive with rustlings and creaks which might have meant anything, and he began to regret, even more, the loss of the revolver.

  The journey seemed endless, but as the ground began to slope beneath him, he found that the trees were thinning and that he had reached the sun-dried side of the first hill.

  Another burst of machine-gun fire rang out quite close to his left, and instinctively he flung himself flat, his cheek against the rough stubble and earth. The firing sparked off another brief exchange of shots which echoed around the hills and then faded out into an uneasy silence. Rolfe raised himself to his knees and half-crouching, began to pick his way up the hill. He thanked God for the night’s protection, knowing that under the glare of the sun this hill would have provided no cover at all.

  A clump of trees, huddled protectively together in a dip on the shoulder of the hill, loomed unexpectedly in front of him and as he quickened his pace, he heard the scrape of metal, and then, as he dropped to the ground, his breath stilled in his throat, he heard a low cough. He waited, spreadeagled in the dirt, his ears straining into the darkness. There was something moving now and he caught the murmur of voices and the sounds of metal equipment. Then, as his heart pounded against the ground, he felt, rather than heard, the thud of boots approaching him.

  He twisted his head towards the sounds, and as he watched, he saw the dim shapes of two figures strolling casually around the edge of the trees. They were chatting quietly in a flat, sing-song tone, and the moon touched the short barrels of their sub-machine-guns.

  Nearer and nearer, and then they stopped, their feet twisting absently in the dust. Then they started to move towards his position. They were only a few yards away now and wouldn’t fail to see him unless they were blind.

  Rolfe gathered his strength, his eyes on the distant cover. They were sentries, he had been stupid to be so careless! He couldn’t tell what uniform they were wearing, but it hardly mattered, as either side would shoot on sight, under the circumstances.

  Almost without realizing it, he found he was on his feet, running like a madman up the slope. He heard the gasp of alarm and the snick of metal. As he twisted and turned around the first trees he saw their trunks suddenly glitter with reflected light, and the night was split in two by the rattle of shots behind him. With his breath choking and sobbing with effort, he flung himself on, regardless of the clawing branches, and conscious only of the whine and whistle about him, and the vicious slap of bullets against wood as they tore and thudded into the trees.

  There was a shout from another direction, it seemed as if it was right ahead, and he swerved violently, his arm grazing against a broken stump. He must have shown himself, for the two guns opened up again with renewed hate. Rat-tat-tat-tat! The earth jumped in little spurts at his feet, and splinters rained down on his head. He halted, his back pressed against some thick branches, his chest heaving painfully. Immediately the firing stopped, too, and he heard the crash of boots stumbling through the undergrowth. There were several more of them now. He swore desperately, if only he could get over the brow of the hill, away from the moon. He might stand a chance then. He stiffened, the hair rising on his neck. He could hear the sound of breathing very close to him, and the very soft creak of leather. He waited, holding in his breath, until little lights danced before his eyes. An age passed, and then, very slowly, and with infinite care, the bushes by his elbow were parted, moved apart by a gleaming bayonet. Fascinated, he watched the rifle appear, and as the barrel wavered, a booted foot rose carefully over the scrub, and as it took the pressure of the ground, the man slid into view.

  He was a thick-set, powerful man, his brown uniform criss-crossed by bandoliers of gleaming ammunition, and his movements controlled by all the instinct and training of a professional soldier.

  Rolfe felt the dry leaves rustling his cheek, and he gripped the branch at his back, waiting for the exclamation, and the thrust of that cruel bayonet.

  The soldier moved slowly forward, his head cocked for the least sound, a finger curled round the trigger. At that moment there was a savage burst of firing from another direction and more confused shouting. The soldier muttered irritably and dashed off in the direction of the new outbreak, his bayonet scabbard dragging coldly across Rolfe’s thigh. He listened unbelievingly to the fading sounds, wondering what chance sound or error had drawn the pursuit in the opposite direction. He saw a ripple of flashes at the foot of the hill, and heard the whip of bullets singing across the clearing. Then there was silence, and with the sweat cold on his face, Rolfe scrambled up the last few yards to the summit and, as the sea glittered welcomingly before him, he ran recklessly down the slope, until a loose stone brought him crashing down, the wind knocked out of his lungs, and then he lay panting, and realizing for the first time just how lucky he had been.

  They will come back eventually, he thought, as he began to recover from the shock, it’s time to move and keep going!

  The going was easier now, and with the black mound behind him he was able to watch his approaching objective, like a giant map.

  He lost all sense of time as he twisted and turned through little gullies, and beneath towering humps of rock, and his brain became so tired with concentration that he had to force himself to stop and listen at each piece of open ground, and when he crossed the faint hill tracks, which seemed to run in every direction.

  As he drew nearer to the sea he caught an occasional glimpse of the fort, its high, rugged outline picked out by the distant flash of automatic fire and the deep thud of grenades.

  Rolfe wondered if all the General’s men were in the fort now, or whether some of them were still fighting from the other prepared positions. There seemed little point foi the Communist sentries, unless there were other forces abroad.

  His heart began to beat faster as he saw the white ribbon of the coast road and heard the soft murmur of the sea.

  Not far now to the hospital. And then—and then, what? He halted by the road, his face twisted into a frown. How would he get them to the other end of Santu? And then, how could they cross the water to the little island where they might be safe? He shook himself angrily, time enough to worry about that when you’re on your way back here!

  By keeping to the edge of the road he was able to study the fishing village for some time, but he was quite unable to see any sign of life, or, for that matter, any sign of damage or fighting. A tinge of hope moved in his breast. The attack would have by-passed the town, as he was now doing, and it was still likely that the Communists were too busy to deploy their forces away from the main objectives, at least until the daylight.

  Taking a deep breath, he padded across the road to s
helter in the deep shadow of the first hut.

  He realized then just how unused and untrained he was for this type of behaviour. At sea, in any ship, he could carry out his duties practically without conscious thought, and the more difficult and improbable tasks he had met with equal calmness and confidence. Yet here, in the silent village, the small houses and huts slashed into strange black and white shapes by the moonlight, he felt uneasy and defenceless.

  He waited until another burst of firing awakened the echoes, and then he stepped from his shelter and along the narrow lane between the squalid dwellings, his footsteps drowned by the barrage.

  The walls seemed to move in on him and he had to duck repeatedly to avoid the dangling nets and the untidy coils of fish line which hung from every roof.

  He blundered blindly past a deserted food stall, its cheap earthenware platters scattered in the dust and crackling beneath his feet. The moon was again masked by the buildings and he walked stiffly forward, his arms outstretched like a sleepwalker, and his face tensed for the expected collision from some fresh obstruction.

  The firing stopped and, as he waited in the deep doorway of what appeared to be a storehouse, his eyes stretched in an effort to pierce the darkness, he heard the slow step of boots upon the road, accompanied by a soft humming. A pleasant sound, like someone taking a quiet evening stroll in the country before returning home to bed, but singularly out of place here.