Send a Gunboat (1960) Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by Douglas Reeman

  Dedication

  Title Page

  Epigraph

  Chapter1

  Chapter2

  Chapter3

  Chapter4

  Chapter5

  Chapter6

  Chapter7

  Chapter8

  Epilogue

  Author’s Acknowledgement

  Copyright

  About the Book

  HMS Wagtail is a river gunboat, a ship seemingly at the end of her useful life, lying in a Hong Kong dockyard awaiting her last summons to the breakers’ yard.

  Commander Justin Rolfe is also seemingly at the end of his useful naval life, an embittered man, brooding and angry from a court-martial verdict.

  Then the offshore island of Santu is threatened with invasion from the Chinese mainland. The small British community must be brought out and Commander Rolfe and the Wagtail are ordered to the island. The job is regarded with sullen resentment by his crew, but to Rolfe, and even the ship, it is a job that offers the chance of a reprieve and a restoration of self-respect.

  About the Author

  Douglas Reeman joined the Navy in 1941. He did convoy duty in the Atlantic, Arctic and the North Sea, and later served in motor torpedo boats. As he says, ‘I am always asked to account for the perennial appeal of the sea story, and its enduring appeal for people of so many nationalities and cultures. It would seem that the eternal and sometimes elusive triangle of man, ship and ocean, particularly under the stress of war, produces the best qualities of courage and compassion, irrespective of the rights and wrongs of the conflict . . . The sea has no understanding of righteous or unjust causes. It is the common enemy, respected by all who serve on it, ignored at their peril.’

  Reeman has written over thirty novels under his own name and more than twenty best-selling historical novels, featuring Richard Bolitho and his nephew Adam Bolitho, under the pseudonym Alexander Kent.

  Also by Douglas Reeman

  A Prayer for the Ship

  High Water

  Dive in the Sun

  The Hostile Shore

  The Last Raider

  With Blood and Iron

  HMS Saracen

  Path of the Storm

  The Deep Silence

  The Pride and the Anguish

  To Risks Unknown

  The Greatest Enemy

  Rendezvous – South Atlantic

  Go In and Sink!

  The Destroyers

  Surface with Daring

  Strike From the Sea

  A Ship Must Die

  Torpedo Run

  Badge of Glory

  The First to Land

  The Volunteers

  The Iron Pirate

  In Danger’s Hour

  The White Guns

  Killing Ground

  The Horizon

  Sunset

  A Dawn Like Thunder

  Battlecruiser

  Dust on the Sea

  For Valour

  To Winifred with love

  Send a Gunboat

  Douglas Reeman

  It is better to light one small candle than to curse the darkness.

  CONFUCIUS

  1

  ANOTHER LONG SUMMER was beginning, but even the dry, heavy breath which fanned the glittering water of Hong Kong’s main anchorage, failed to quell the normal air of feverish activity and mounting noise, which surged back and forth in a weird ever-changing and confusing pattern.

  The hard, unblinking sun fixed the white buildings around the harbour in a swimming heat-haze, making the windows glitter and twist, as if in pain. Even the mean, squalid little streets, crammed with their surging streams of colourful humanity, could not escape, although the shopfronts crouched in permanent semi-darkness. Only the uneven tops of the smart new skyscrapers, and the distant roofs of the sleepy hill-property seemed free from the stifling pressure of noise and dirt.

  From the harbour these buildings made a pleasant backdrop, distance helping to mould them into a live and vital picture for the newcomer. Old mixed with new. The great temple, overshadowed by the giant building of the Communist China Bank, and the neat white bungalows of the civil servants, lumped almost alongside the peeling tin roof of a canning factory.

  The contrast was apparent too on the water. It was never quite still, as in any other harbour. It was always jammed with its countless beetle-like craft, from bobbing ungainly sampans, and the battered water-taxis, to the tall, ancient junks, which glided like great bats amongst the other craft with unerring accuracy and calm.

  A P. & O. liner, her derricks clanking and jerking, lay alongside the main quay, her rails jammed with excited faces, and gay dresses, and two wharves away, the squat, eagle-crested ferry steamer sidled slowly out into the stream, about to start on yet another journey across the blue water to Macao.

  Clear of the main waterway, and aloof from the bustling life of the harbour, the cruiser towered like a giant pale-grey rock, the soft wavelets shimmering and reflecting against her lofty sides. As she pulled gently at her mooring buoys, the dancing lights flickered from the brass fittings about the spotless decks, while the long taut awnings flung back the hard glare to the clear skies above.

  Few figures moved about the decks, for apart from the heat, and the obvious boredom of looking at the same view, it was Sunday, and the ship’s company at least showed no desire to follow the example of the busy people around them.

  A marine sentry paced stolidly at the head of the accommodation ladder, his red face shadowed by the wide sweep of his tropical helmet, the gleaming rifle already hot in his grasp.

  The Officer-of-the-Day, immaculate in white drill, tucked the long telescope under his arm, and licked his lips, savouring the taste of gin, and trying to remember what he had just had for lunch. Occasionally he glanced carefully at the shaded skylight in the middle of the cruiser’s wide quarterdeck, as if expecting a sign to tell him of the movements of the Admiral beneath it. For this was the Flagship, and as the thought crossed his sweating mind, the officer squinted aloft to the limp flag at the masthead. The flag of Admiral Commanding the China Inshore Squadron.

  He stepped back gratefully under the awning, his eyes resting momentarily on the two American destroyers which were moored side-by-side about half a mile away. Even from here he could clearly discern the wild blare of jazz which poured unceasingly from their deck loudspeakers to join the other discordant noises around them.

  A police boat slid quietly between two moored junks, and prowled uneasily alongside one of the fishing yawls. The puppet-like figures waved and nodded in the age-old game of question and answer, until the launch, apparently satisfied, continued on its way.

  The officer stiffened, as the Engineering Officer and the Doctor, in rumpled civilian clothes, clattered down the accommodation ladder to a waiting boat, their golf clubs rattling behind them. He envied them their freedom, but not to play golf. He whistled softly, watching the boat scud away for the shore, his mind toying dreamily with the little Malayan girl from the “Seven Seas” Club.

  “Signal, sir!” The voice shattered his thoughts.

  The young signalman waited respectfully while his superior collected his wits.

  “Well?” The Malayan girl vanished.

  “Government House, sir, just signalled to say that Mr. Gore-Lister an’ his assistant are comin’ over to see the Admiral.”

  “Is that all?” His eyes scanned the brief flimsy.

  “S’all, sir.”

  He tugged his jacket straight, and started towards the screen-door.

  “Oh, Quartermaster,�
�� he snapped. “Two Government House men will be aboard shortly. Call me when you sight the launch!”

  He stepped gingerly over the high coaming, cursing these damned civil servants who thought it necessary to do their business on a Sunday.

  * * * * *

  Vice-Admiral Sir Ralph Meadows tossed the signal carelessly on to his desk, and walked thoughtfully to the open scuttle overlooking the harbour. His pale, china-blue eyes surveyed the colourful panorama before him with apparent disinterest, but as usual, his quick brain was summing up all the possibilities for the unexpected visit from the representatives of Her Majesty’s Government.

  He was a small man, built compactly and neatly. Everything about the Admiral was neat, from his thin, finely-cut features, burned to a nut-brown by his years of service overseas, to his narrow shoulders, and delicately shaped hands. Many people in the past had mistaken his fragile appearance for weakness, a mistake which had cost them a great deal, in their own comfort and security.

  His eyes were perhaps the real clue to his true identity, cold and clear, yet giving the impression of his great insight and farseeing intelligence.

  At that moment, he was thinking more of his past, than of what might happen when the new crisis arose.

  He had started his service as a young midshipman right here, in China, helping to patrol the great trade routes on the Yangtse, and trying to learn something about the vast, unfathomable peoples which thronged its banks. Pirates, dope smuggling, slavery, and minor wars had all made their mark on his young mind, and he had left the China Station with a true, if youthful regret. He had imagined that those experiences were to be the end of his contact with the country, but after a lifetime in other parts of the world, two world wars, and a steady climb up the uncertain ladder of promotion and appointment, he had returned, as Commander-in-Chief of the overworked Inshore Squadron.

  And in a few more months, he would be leaving China, and the navy. This time for ever.

  He watched the ferry steamer puffing past, the rows of faces upturned towards the British cruiser. He had changed a lot from the pink faced midshipman, but China, he shrugged inwardly, she was still about the same. Pirates and dope smugglers still abounded. The minor wars had been replaced by something bigger, but basically it was the same.

  He turned slowly, and surveyed his spacious stateroom, which ran the whole breadth of the ship. The green fitted carpets, the polished brass scuttles, and immaculate white paintwork, all gave an appearance of security and well-being. A selection of bell buttons and telephones connected him with his minions and his command, and a word from him could make or break any one of them. He found it a vaguely comforting thought.

  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 Am
ericans 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.”