Free Send a Gunboat (1960) by Douglas Reeman Page A

some Commie ships, we’ll never make it, don’t you see?” He stared at them wildly.
    “We’ll manage, sir,” Herridge’s voice was calm. “If you’ll show us what to do, we’ll manage!” He watched, as his words seemed to pull Fallow in to some sort of order.
    “Of course, yes, of course,” mumbled Fallow vaguely, and stumbled out of the room.
    Chase’s florid face wrinkled into a frown. “We’ll be O.K., won’t we, Wilf?”
    Herridge clapped him across the shoulder. “Sure we will!” But as they groped their way down the ladder to their mess, he was thinking furiously. If anything blows up on this job, we’ll be about as popular as a pork chop in a synagogue, he decided.
    * * * * *
    “Three minutes that time, sir!” Vincent screwed up his eyes against the sun’s glare, as he peered up at the bridge, watching the Captain’s impassive face. All morning, as the
Wagtail
pushed her way forward across the empty sea, they had been lowering the boats as far as the waterline and hoisting them again, while Rolfe timed the proceedings with his watch. Vincent had giventhe orders so often, that he had lost all count of time, and was conscious only of the glare and his dry and aching throat.
    Rolfe’s eyes, hidden by his sun-glasses, watched the little scene below him, his attention only half on what Vincent had been saying. For two days, and one morning now, they had been at sea and every available hour had been spent at exercises, as he had promised. At first it had seemed a hopeless task, and he had almost been tempted to give up the struggle. After all, he told himself repeatedly, how can you make a decrepit old gunboat, with a half-trained crew, behave like a modern frigate? Especially when most of the people in responsibility aboard were either incompetent, or disinterested. He shook his head. No. That was a stupid attitude to take. They were willing enough, but it was just that the men had been allowed to decay gently, like the ship.
    He was again aware of Vincent’s hot face below him. “Very good,” he nodded. “Secure the boats!” And as Vincent’s tense body slumped thankfully, he added sharply, “But we’ll have it in two minutes tomorrow!”
    He watched the boats being swung inboard. They might prove to be very useful in an emergency, and half-trained Chinese seamen would be useless without this sort of exercise. They were interesting boats. Not whalers or motor-boats in the accepted naval fashion, but two twenty-five foot sampans, one fitted with an indifferent engine, and the other with oars. With their queer twin keels and a draft of only a few inches, they would skim over any mud bank.
    Vincent’s voice, harsh with exertion, rang clearly across the burning teak planking of the deck.
    “Avast heaving there! You! Whatsyourname! Lin Ki is it? Well put your back into it in future!” There was a pause, then, “Right, hoist away!”
    Rolfe smiled slightly. All this work had, if nothing else, kept his officers too busy to get on each other’s nerves.
    “Tea, Captain-sir!” Chao, clad only in a large pair of spotless shorts, was watching him gravely, a tray in his hands.
    Rolfe sank down on a signal locker, and drank gratefully, throwing his cap and sun-glasses in a corner. It was peaceful in the wheelhouse, and it enabled him to go over his preparations without interruption. He found that by standing most of theforenoon and afternoon watches himself, he was able to keep Fallow and Vincent more usefully employed at their checking and training duties.
    “Very nice, Chao,” he said, putting down the cup. “You’re a big help to me.”
    Chao smiled happily. “Will Captain-sir be requiring drinks this evening?”
    Rolfe turned his face away. It was odd how easy it had been to keep off the whisky once he had got swamped by this sea of work and planning. All the same, it would be nice to have just one quiet drink with his dinner, in the seclusion of his cabin. He tortured himself for a