Send a Gunboat (1960) (2 page)

The cabin was dominated by a giant coloured chart, which was fixed right across one bulkhead, and lighted by cunningly concealed sections of strip lighting. He was very proud of this chart, which he had had specially made. It clearly showed the vastness of his command, from the Gulf of Thailand in the South, to the lonely wastes of the Eastern Sea in the North, where the Yangtse poured its yellow waters into the mass of tiny, miserable islands about its mouth.

Here and there around the chart were small, pink flags, each bearing the name of a ship, each denoting the position of one of the Admiral’s scattered chain of patrols, his ever-restless and hard-pressed fleet. To his visitors from Government House the names would be meaningless, or at best, a vague appreciation of the navy’s control, but to him, each flag, and each name, conjured up a clear picture of the ship, its capabilities and job,
as well as a very formidable understanding of her commanding officer and complement.

He nodded, smiling slightly, the chart would look well on the wall of his study in his converted farmhouse in far-off Sussex.

The door opened carefully, and his bespectacled secretary, a tall, gangling Lieutenant, poked his head round the edge.

“Mr. Gore-Lister, sir, and er, his assistant,” he announced.

The Admiral smiled thinly. “Right, let’s get it over with!”

Gore-Lister, a plump, ruddy-faced man, in a neat, lightweight grey suit, was slow-speaking, and, or so the Admiral believed, equally slow-thinking, but he spent his whole life in Hong Kong, and was considered to be an authority on all matters pertaining to the Chinese “problem,” as he called it.

The Admiral rarely agreed with his ideas, but for all that, they were good friends.

The other man was young and smooth-featured, with a permanently eager expression, and a new Eton tie, which might be a dangerous combination the Admiral decided, after a quick appraisal.

After the secretary had departed, Gore-Lister began to pace nervously up and down the carpet, while the Admiral sat back in his chair, his finger-tips pressed lightly together.

“Well, Paul?” he said at length. “Let’s have it. What’s on your mind this time?”

The other man halted reluctantly, and looked at the Admiral, who, in his white uniform with the gold encrusted shoulders, looked like a little carved figure.

“What d’you know about Santu Island?” His deep set eyes showed no expression.

The Admiral slid from his chair and moved across to the chart, and while he ran his hand swiftly across its surface, his brain was hard at work, calculating and planning. So it was Santu now. Another pin-prick from the Communists. He sighed inwardly. It was inevitable after the recent Formosa trouble, of course. Thrust and counter-thrust. His finger halted at the top of the chart, by the thirtieth parallel. “Santu Island, here it is.” His voice was flat and unemotional, as if he was talking to himself. “About thirty miles West of the Chusan Archipelago. In other words, just outside Chinese territorial waters.”

He turned to the others, who were watching his hand with interest, “D’you want me to go on?”

“Well, do you know the set-up there?” Gore-Lister’s voice was thick.

The Admiral walked back to the desk, and perched himself on the edge, one neat shoe swinging slowly.

“Governed by some ex-general of the old régime, it’s been overlooked or ignored by the Communists up to now.” He raised his eyebrows questioningly. “It’s almost part of that great mass of islands there, and most of them were independent less than fifty years ago. They used to be ruled by well-bred pirates, who preyed on shipping entering and leaving the Yangtse.” He lifted his gaze back to the chart. “As you can see, it’s about forty miles long, and fifteen wide, and not much use for anything.” He turned his cold eyes on the others, “Now suppose you tell me what’s going on?”

Gore-Lister sighed deeply, and lit a cigarette.

“Did you know that there are some British Nationals living there?”

“I did.” He felt like adding “More fools they”, but he refrained. “I believe they more or less run the tea and timber business on the island, while the old General gets on with his smuggling and piracy!”

The other man smiled bleakly, the humour not quite reaching his eyes. “That’s as may be. The fact is that the Communists are believed to be going to take over the island. By force if necessary.” He allowed the words to sink in.

“What d’you want me to do about it? Take my Marines up there first?” The Admiral’s voice was sharp.

“No, sir, we thought you might be able to send a ship up there to feel out the facts of the matter.” The young man had spoken for the first time, and the others stared at him, the Admiral with pity, and his chief with anger.

“You’re here to listen, Mace,” he snapped. “Sir Ralph and I are just sounding each other out! As we have done for the last three years,” he added dryly.

The Admiral rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “The harbour’s not much there. It’s been allowed to silt up a good bit. Why can’t you send one of your chaps? It’d be much cheaper!” he grinned.

“No, this is top secret stuff. If anyone got a sniff of what we’re up to, there’d be hell to pay. Whereas, a visiting warship would be quite normal, surely?”

“Well, yes, we used to call there quite a lot, before the Americans began to swamp the area. It’s not really necessary now, but it
could
be done.”

“Good. I knew you’d help us out! What I want is this. Brief your captain to find out exactly what’s happening. If it’s alright, he can pull out. If it’s bad, you’ll have to give him carte-blanche to evacuate all the British residents at once. And I mean at once! He can contact the acting consul there, who’ll be able to give him all the details.”

“Why don’t you ask the consul what’s happening?”

Gore-Lister permitted himself a wide grin. “He’s got a certain amount of money invested in the place, so he may be biased!” He leaned forward, pounding the desk with a beefy fist. “Whatever happens, this must be done quickly and quietly, we can’t afford to have the Communists taking the place while our people are still there. They’d make a lot of unpleasantness and propaganda out of it!”

“You give me the word, and I’ll take my Squadron up there in force,” said the Admiral grimly. “There’ll be no sea invasion then!”

“And we don’t want another ‘Amethyst’ incident either!” Gore-Lister retorted quickly.

He leaned back tiredly. “You know the facts, Ralph. An island like this simply isn’t
worth
making trouble over. With the Americans sitting in Formosa, and us in Hong Kong, we can afford to be generous. Or at least, careful.”

The Admiral peered thoughtfully at his shoe, his head cocked on one side. China was like a tiger, he mused. A tiger who sleeps with one eye open. At any moment, a snatch of the claws in Formosa, or a flick of the tail in Hong Kong, and you had to be very quick on your feet.

He shook his head angrily, and concentrated on the task in hand.

“Right, leave it with me,” he snapped, and pressed the bell for his secretary.

When the Lieutenant appeared, he started to issue his orders
to set the wheels of command in motion. “Show these gentlemen to your hideout, and they’ll help you to draft out orders for a new operation. They’ll include a file on local details, and I want everything you hear to be treated as secret. For your ears alone. If I hear of just one leak!” He left the threat unfinished, but his secretary’s face satisfied him well enough. “I want to see the Operations Officer at once, and I shall need a Readiness Report on the
Wagtail.
”

The mystified looks on the three faces as they left his stateroom, were most satisfying.

When he explained the task to his Operations Officer, Commander Pearce, his subordinate bit his lip uneasily.

“Must you send the
Wagtail,
sir? She’s pretty old, and her new commanding officer has only joined the Squadron this week, he’s not even seen her yet!”

“Look, Pearce, it has to be
Wagtail,
and 1924 isn’t old for a ship if she’s been well built! She’s one of the original China River Gunboats, and very handy in shallow water, just the ship for playing hide-and-seek in and out the islands. Secondly, she’s been employed lately on the refugee traffic, searching junks and so on, so she’s pretty well known. It wouldn’t do to send a couple of ruddy great destroyers into Santu harbour,” his voice was tinged with sarcasm. “In addition to which, there’s only about five feet of water in the place.” He tapped his chart complacently.

The Commander still looked uncomfortable.

“The new commanding officer, sir.”

“Yes, I know.” The Admiral jerked open a drawer in the desk, and pulled out a manila folder. “He’s come here under a bit of a cloud, hasn’t he? Is that what’s worrying you?”

“Well, sir, in view of his record, and the importance of this operation, I thought,” he faltered unhappily.

“I know what you thought, but you don’t want to damn a man before you’ve had a look at the rest of the picture.” He skimmed briefly through the folder. “He was in command of the frigate
Sequin
in the Mediterranean up until three months ago, when it was due to be paid off for a long refit. He ended the commission by ramming the dockyard wall at Malta, and damn near sinking the ship. Court-Martial found him negligent,
needless to say, but in view of his past record, they let him off with a severe reprimand, which is a nice way of condemning him to ruin in the Service! He comes out here to take command of a poor, flogged-out little gunboat, less than half the size of his frigate, which is due for the scrapheap anyway. And he must know that such a command means the finish of him. Unless,” he paused, fixing the Operations Officer with a piercing stare. “Unless one particular Admiral shows a little trust in him. If he pulls this stunt off all right, it’ll set his feet back on the old ladder of fame!”

He tossed the folder across the desk. “Go on, look at it. Good record. Submarine Service during the war, got the D.S.C., too. Kept his nose clean since, up till the last affair. I’d like to know
why
that happened,” he muttered half to himself.

“Well, if you say so, sir.”

“Yes, damn you, I do say so! Now get down to the dockyard, and tell them that
Wagtail
’s overhaul must be completed by tomorrow. She must sail in three days at the most!”

As the flurried Commander hurried away, the Admiral stood looking at the folder, bearing the name, Lieutenant-Commander Justin Rolfe, Royal Navy.

I wonder what he’d have said if he knew that this lad’s father gave me such a chance when he was
my
Admiral? He chuckled, and pushed it back into the drawer.

* * * * *

Like a bright yellow beetle, the taxicab rattled and lurched its way over the cobbled road and criss-crossing railway lines which wound through the dockyard in every direction. Occasionally it would run into a patch of shade as it crossed close to the looming rusty hulks in the repair yards, or passed near to the towering grey sides of the destroyers and frigates which rested at their berths. A cloud of thick dust marked the car’s slow progress, and the screech of gears clashed with the thunder of rivet guns and the clang of steel against steel.

Justin Rolfe lay back on the dusty cushions of the seat, his long legs straddled grimly across his luggage and against the driver’s partition, as he fought against the painful jolting motion.
He felt a vague sense of relief to be out of the stifling streets, where the impassive faces had squashed against the cab’s windows on either side, and the merciless sun had turned the interior into an inferno. Here in the dockyard at least, it gave a small impression of improvement, and through the open windows he caught the faint caress of the sea breeze.

His wide grey eyes stared fixedly at the back of the driver’s head, and he tried to concentrate on the climax of the recent series of events which had started from the moment he had re-entered the Court-Martial room, and found the point of his sword turned against him, and had seemingly ended when he had arrived at Hong Kong for his new appointment. The corners of his mouth turned down slightly as he considered the matter. It would be his last appointment too, there was no doubt about that.

The throbbing had started in his head again, and involuntarily he covered his eyes with his hand, feeling the sweat moist against the palm.

He forced himself to look at the ships as they passed, putting aside all other thoughts, unconsciously gritting his teeth together with determination. Whatever else had happened in the past, and regardless of his tortured feelings, he was sure that he could mask his feelings from others, and especially from his new command.

Wagtail,
he repeated the name to himself, remembering how his heart had plunged when he had looked her up in Jane’s Annual. The gunboat was hardly mentioned, for apart from being apparently the oldest vessel in commission, she was due for the scrapyard at any time now. A fitting ending to a career, he had cursed.

To keep his mind free of its mounting agony, he had filled every free moment trying to find out about the quaint little ship he had to command, and as the taxi lurched to a standstill, he decided that the
Wagtail
had played no small part in keeping him sane. If only he could have a drink before he went aboard. The very thought of it made him lick his suddenly parched lips, and simultaneously, the throbbing in his head began to get worse.

He staggered out into the blinding sunlight, fumbling for his
money, while the taxi driver unloaded his bags, and then stood impassively watching the naval officer who was acting so strangely.

When the cab eventually left him, Rolfe straightened up, mentally putting himself together again, in the manner which he had painfully taught himself during the last few months.

Although over six feet, his broad shoulders and slim athlete’s waist gave the impression of sturdiness rather than height. He had a strong if sad face, and his generous mouth, and dark unruly hair which curled from under his white cap, added to the picture a recklessness to offset the coldness in his eyes. To the casual observer he appeared as the typical naval officer, his white drill uniform hanging perfectly on his hard-muscled body, the gold-laced shoulder straps of Lieutenant-Commander glinting in the sun. Only by watching closely would anyone notice the constant tightening of the jaw muscles, and the occasional gleam of anguish in the eyes.