Diving Stations

NINE

The big trading junk looked innocent enough to the casual observer. The large rush-matting sails rippled in the breeze like blinds fluttering behind an open window and she was making barely two knots. The Chinese characters daubed on her flat stern indicated she was from Macao, but she carried no other mark or figures of identification◦– a not unusual state of affairs with native sailing vessels. But there was something about her that puzzled Lieutenant Furutaka and, after a short period of indecisive hesitation, he took the bull by the horns and called the captain to the bridge.

Commander Aritsu’s expression boded trouble as he came up the companion way. He liked his junior officers to be self-reliant and made no attempt to conceal his annoyance as Furutaka pointed out the junk and explained his misgivings. Aritsu snarled impatiently, raised his binoculars, and examined the mysterious stranger for himself.

For the river people of China, their boat is their home. They have nowhere else to live and the larger sea-going junks often support two or three families extending, on occasions, to three generations, complete with all their worldly possessions and livestock. As the deeply laden vessels dip past with their leeside gunwales almost under water, it is often difficult to see what possible room could be left for commercial freight in the face of its superabundant human cargo. The men work the sails and steering, the women cook, wash clothes amidships, or idly gossip in the stern; chickens cluck importantly from bamboo coops strung from the rigging, and innumerable children of all ages play in whatever free deck space is left.

And, as Aritsu’s experienced eyes quickly detected, that was the oddity which had puzzled his officer-of-the-watch. The junk moving slowly across Suma’s bows only had three people on deck!

‘Lower away the sea boat, Lieutenant. And send over a boarding party to check her papers.’

Suma’s cutter was already swung out and ready◦– a normal precaution when a warship is operating under combat conditions in a designated war zone◦– and the boarding party of six armed seamen under the command of a young Korean sub-lieutenant climbed down into it, as the deckhands lowered it into the water and released the falls.

Responding to the signal flag fluttering from the destroyer’s halyards◦– the square of yellow and blue bunting -indicating the letter K◦– the junk had come to an untidy stop and was waiting dead in the water as the cutter approached. The flag letter K in the International Code meant Stop Immediately and Aritsu showed little surprise at the junk’s prompt obedience. The native seamen plying their trade along the Chinese coast knew nothing of such matters as signal codes and international conventions, but experience had taught them that any warship flying the yellow and blue flag intended them to stop. And failure to obey could mean a shot across the bows or a brutal shelling, depending on the mood of the naval commander◦– and his nationality.

The crew of the junk made no attempt to resist as the cutter came alongside and disgorged the boarding party. They stood in the stern neither helping nor hindering, seemingly unconcerned by the unceremonious visitation. Aritsu watched through his binoculars for signs of hostility, but the three Chinese seamen accepted the invasion with disinterested docility.

Sub-Lieutenant Mihoro looked quickly to right and left as he swung over the low side of the junk, but he could detect no obvious signs of concealed weapons and, raising his arms imperiously, he sent the boarding party for’ard to search the bows, while he and the petty officer went aft to question the crew.

The junk’s cargo, carefully protected from the weather under heavy tarpaulins, covered every available inch of the deck space and Petty Officer Kino swore sharply as he stubbed his bare toe against something hard. Lifting the edge of the tarpaulin, he bent down to examined what was underneath and let out a soft but expressive hiss of surprise.

‘Over here, sir!’ he called to Mihoro.

Ordering the two armed guards to come aft and cover the Chinese crew, the sub-lieutenant joined Kino amidships. The petty officer’s bayonet sawed through the securing ropes and, throwing back the tarpaulin, he showed the officer the cargo of black steel barrels hidden beneath the covers.

Oil!

Mihoro thought quickly. Unlike the petty officer he could understand English, and his eyes narrowed as he read the stenciled white letters on the side of each barrel◦– Diesel Oil. De Gama Oil & Wharfage Company, Macao. Well, the junk was outward bound from Macao right enough. But where to? Chinese sailors were notoriously wary of deep-sea voyages and were normally only happy when hugging the coast. Yet this particular junk was steering a course that was taking it out to the middle of an empty sea, the nearest land to the south, Borneo, was over a thousand miles away.

Getting to his feet, Mihoro glanced suspiciously at the three Chinese seamen standing meekly in the stern under the guns of the guards and spoke rapidly to Kino. The petty officer nodded and called Teishu down from the bows where he was checking another group of similar barrels. The seaman saluted as Kino gave him his instructions and, climbing on to the gunwale, he began semaphoring to the destroyer with his arms.

Seitaka, Suma’s Yeoman of Signals, raised his telescope and read off the message. He passed it on verbally to Aritsu who was waiting impatiently at his side.

‘Sub-Lieutenant Mihoro requests you go aboard the junk, sir. He says he has found a large number of oil barrels – diesel oil.’

The impatience vanished from Aritsu’s face. He was suddenly alert. Diesel oil◦– fuel for warships. Enemy warships. What a stroke of luck. He could not only destroy the enemy’s supplies but, if he was able to establish the rendezvous position for the refuelling operation, he could also lay an ambush and sink the warship for which it was intended. The normally taciturn commander was actually smiling as he ordered the bosun to lower away Suma’s motorboat.

Aritsu sniffed the air suspiciously as he climbed over the side of the junk to join Mihoro and the boarding party. Ignoring the three prisoners, he slowly walked down the length of the deck and examined the serried rows of barrels. The last doubts vanished from his mind by the time he had completed his inspection. Much as he would have liked to seize the junk as a prize and bring the captured oil back to Whampoa in triumph, it would interfere with his other plans, and after a short pause, he ordered Kino to unseal the barrels and tip the fuel into the sea. Better to destroy the stuff and leave himself a free agent, he decided. He turned to the Korean sub-lieutenant.

‘Bring the prisoners to me.’

Prodded forward by the bayonets of the guards, the Chinese sailors shuffled their way down from the poop to the well deck amidships where Aritsu was waiting.

‘Which of you is the Captain?’ he asked in fluent Cantonese.

Chen Yu moved forward half a pace and bowed. Aritsu stared at him in silence for a few moments◦– his deep-set eyes boring into the Chinaman’s brain, as if laying bare the innermost secrets of his soul.

‘Where are you taking the oil?’ he snapped.

‘Palambang, sir.’

‘Liar.’

Chen Yu bowed in acknowledgement but made no reply. He stared down at the deck and remained silent.

‘You are in the pay of the British.’ Aritsu made the question sound like a statement of fact. ‘You are being paid to refuel British warships.’

‘No, sir. Not being paid, sir.’ Chen Yu answered truthfully.

Mihoro had disappeared through the hatch into the tiny cabin under the poopdeck and, as Aritsu pursued his interrogation, he suddenly emerged carrying a number of navigation instruments◦– instruments of a sophistication and type not normally found in a primitive Chinese sailing vessel… Aritsu paused in mid-question, took one of the instruments from the sub-lieutenant, and examined it carefully. He smiled to himself as he saw the official British Admiralty mark stamped into the brass casing.

‘Lies are of no avail,’ he told Chen Yu ominously as he held the sextant up in front of his face. ‘Give me the information I want and no harm will come to you. Where is your rendezvous position with the English warship?’

Chen Yu made no reply and the commander snapped a swift order in Japanese to the guards. Picking the Chinese skipper up by the arms, they threw him down across the opened hatchway leading to the hold and held him firmly, so that the lower part of his left leg was placed at an angle across the empty space – the limb being supported at thigh and ankle by the rigid coaming surrounding the hatchway.

‘A crippled Captain is of no use to a healthy crew,’ Aritsu said quietly. ‘Tell us the rendezvous co-ordinates.’ Chen Yu stared up at him with wide, terror-filled eyes.

Aritsu nodded and one of the sailors slammed the butt of his heavy service rifle down on the Chinaman’s shin. There was a dry cracking sound of splintered bone and Chen Yu’s leg snapped like a piece of rotted wood. Blood oozed through the cotton material of his trousers where the broken bone protruded through the flesh. He remained silent for a moment and then shrieked like a wounded animal as the pain reached his brain.

‘The other leg, Suka,’ Aritsu ordered unemotionally. He waited for the sailors to rearrange the Chinaman over the hatchway, so that his right leg stretched out in readiness for the same treatment. The agony of the movement brought more screams, but the commander’s expression remained completely impassive. Bending forward, he stared down into Chen Yu’s perspiring face. ‘Tell me the position or you will never walk again.’

Chen Yu compressed his lips defiantly and the rifle butt descended for a second time. The Chinaman’s body lifted in a rigid arch and his mouth opened in a soundless scream. An eternity of pain passed in a fraction of a second before he fainted. Aritsu straightened up. He took no pleasure from the torture. It was a barbaric necessity. He turned away slowly.

Wan Fu saw the movements and knew it was his turn next. Pushing the guards aside he leapt for the poop rail, swayed uncertainly for a moment, and threw himself into the sea. Sub-Lieutenant Mihoro reached the side almost before the Chinese seaman hit the water and, dragging a revolver from the holster at his hip, he took careful aim and continued firing until the chamber was empty. By the time Aritsu arrived at the rails, Wan Fu’s lifeless body was floating face-downwards in the blood-stained sea.

‘A pity,’ he commented blandly. ‘He would have been useful. You must learn the art of self-discipline, SubLieutenant. You Koreans can only think of killing.’ Mihoro flushed angrily. The torture of Chen Yu had stirred a primitive evil in his subconscious◦– a latent sadism inherited from his Mongol ancestors which had remained dormant for many generations. He considered Commander Aritsu, like most professional Japanese naval officers, was too soft.

‘We still have one more prisoner, sir,’ he reminded the senior officer. ‘Why not leave that one to me?’

Aritsu felt sickened by the brutality he had already ordered, but he did not allow his revulsion to deter him from what he saw to be his duty to the Emperor. And much as he wanted to wash his hands of the whole filthy matter, he felt a certain reluctance to give the sadistic Korean officer a free hand. He watched Wan Fu’s body drift slowly astern while he decided what to do. Then, turning away from the rail, he walked back to the well-deck amidships.

Ignoring Mihoro’s offer he looked at Kino and nodded. ‘Bring the other prisoner to me, Petty Officer. I will continue the interrogation.’

As the men of the boarding party advanced towards the stern the surviving Chinese seamen made a wild dash for the side, but this time the guards were on the alert. Two of them moved to cut off his line of escape while the third reached out and his strong hand twisted in the prisoner’s hair. He pulled hard and an unmistakable feminine scream of protest rang out. Two more guards closed in quickly, seized the woman’s arms and hauled her bodily down the wooden steps of the poop, as she fought and struggled to escape.

Mihoro stepped forward as they dragged her before Aritsu. Without waiting for permission he grasped the prisoner’s sweat-soiled cotton shirt and ripped it off with a savage jerk. He looked at the smooth flawless body and saw the small high breasts tipped with dark nipples. His eyes glistened cruelly and the tip of his tongue passed across his upper lip in anticipation.

‘The top half seems to be a woman, sir,’ he leered at the grinning sailors. His hands fumbled at the cord holding up the baggy cotton trousers. It came undone and he watched them slide down to her ankles. ‘And the bottom half undoubtedly is as well.’ He stepped back to admire the view.

‘That is enough, Sub-Lieutenant!’ Aritsu snapped sharply. ‘You are an officer◦– not an animal. Control yourself.’ The commander stepped closer to the prisoner. There was something familiar about the girl. He stared at Chai Chen who rewarded his interest by spitting in his face. Mihoro lunged forward and struck her across the cheek with his clenched fist, but Aritsu pushed him away with an angry gesture.

Suma’s captain seemed flustered by the insult. He wiped his cheek with a handkerchief. ‘Yes… of course. Your step-father is Dominguez Alburra. That would account for the De Gama Oil Company’s name on the barrels.’

Ignoring the dictates of modesty, Chai Chen wriggled like an eel to break free from her captors; but the guards merely tightened their grip on her arms and her naked body arched with pain. ‘You go to hell, pig!’ she hissed at him.

Aritsu accepted the epithet with a smile as the girl’s identity triggered his memory. The Japanese Intelligence Agency in Macao had kept him well-informed and very little escaped their notice.

‘But, of course… Lieutenant Hamilton.’ He did not miss the momentary flicker of fear on the girl’s face as she heard the name. ‘He saved your life when your launch was bombed. And, as I understand it, he has been a constant visitor to your step-father’s home.’ Aritsu paused, to give Chai Chen time to digest the fact that he knew rather more about her activities than she might have expected. ‘That is why you are carrying diesel oil◦– to refuel the English submarine!’

Chai Chen knew it was useless to lie. She shivered and, as if suddenly conscious of her nakedness, squeezed her thighs together as she saw the sailors looking at her body. Lowering her head, she stared down at the deck.

Mihoro’s impatience exploded with a savage snarl. Before Aritsu could stop him, the sub-lieutenant stepped forward and, motioning the guards to hold her securely, he raked his clawed hands along the girl’s rigid body. Chai Chen endured the indignity in silence until the probing fingers found a new and more subtle way to hurt her, and the Korean smirked with complacent satisfaction as he heard her soft whimper of disgust.

¹Leave her alone, Sub-Lieutenant!’

Mihoro retreated reluctantly. The expression on his face was like that of a child deprived of its favourite toy. He stared at his erstwhile victim and his eyes glittered at the memory as he saw the ugly marks left by his fingers. Aritsu swallowed back his anger, regained his composure, and steeled himself for the distasteful task that lay ahead.

‘It is useless to resist,’ he told Chai Chen quietly. ‘Nothing can save the English submarine. If you tell me the rendezvous position I might be able to persuade Lieutenant Hamilton to surrender. There is no other way in which his life can be saved. But I am powerless to help him unless I know where the refuelling is to take place.’ Chai Chen continued to stare at the deck and Aritsu made one last despairing effort to persuade her. ‘If you continue to remain silent I will be forced to hand you over to the Sub-Lieutenant. And if I do, you will undoubtedly suffer a great deal of unnecessary pain. Make no mistake about it◦– your obstinacy will be broken in the end and you will tell me everything I want to know. Why not be sensible?’ Chai Chen raised her head slowly. She stared at Aritsu as if judging the sincerity of his offer and then glanced at Mihoro. She turned away with a shiver as she read the cruelty in the Korean’s face.

‘I know nothing,’ she said simply.

Aritsu closed his eyes for a brief moment as if suffering a spasm of physical pain. Then, with a stiffly formal bow, he walked to the side where the motorboat was waiting to take him back to Suma. Mihoro followed him like a dog eager to be loosed in search of a rabbit.

‘You may proceed with the interrogation of the prisoner, Sub-Lieutenant,’ he instructed the Korean. ‘Report to me when you have obtained the information. You have precisely thirty minutes to achieve your object.’

Aritsu acknowledged Mihoro’s salute and climbed down into the motorboat. Settling himself in the stern, he placed his fingertips together in an attitude of prayer and tried to come to terms with his conscience, as the launch reversed away from the junk and turned its bows in the direction of the waiting destroyer. The commander sat in contemplative silence for several minutes and then, as if forcing himself to perform an act of penance for his sins, he turned his head and stared back at the junk.

He could not see what Mihoro was doing, but Chai Chen was already tied spread-eagled and naked against the side of the deckhouse and the steel blade of the bayonet which the Korean was holding in his right hand glistened in the sun. Aritsu shuddered as her first screams echoed across the water.

HAMILTON WAITED until the hands of the control room clock settled exactly on 11-59, before easing himself out of his canvas chair and moving to the center of the compartment. The heat and humidity inside the submarine was unbearable and, in spite of his earlier warnings to the crew, his hooked fingers scratched relentlessly at a patch of inflamed and itching skin around his waist. He felt tired and dirty, and was acutely conscious of the unpleasant odour of the stale sweat clinging to his unwashed body.

Despite the personal discomforts, however, Hamilton was still optimistic and he was well satisfied with the efforts of Rapier’s crew. Even Villiers, the young fourth hand, had turned out to be an unexpected asset. During a recent tour of duty with the Diplomatic Corps in Tokyo, he had made frequent trips to the Japanese island of Kuro to observe and learn the secrets of the pearl divers◦– and it was this knowledge which Hamilton had made good use of.

With Villiers’ ability to dive and remain underwater for upwards of two minutes at a time with no more specialized equipment than a heavy stone and a primitive nose-clip, it had proved possible to repair the damage to the fuel tank while the submarine lay stopped on the surface during the night. Admittedly with the tools available, it was a rough and ready job◦– canvas and a wooden plug◦– but it was adequate for the purpose. And as a result Hamilton had been able to reach the pre-arranged rendezvous without forcing Rapier beyond her normal cruising speed. With fuel supplies dwindling by the hour, economy was an all-important consideration…

‘12 o’clock, sir,’ Scott reported from the chart tables. ‘We should be in exactly the right position according to the DR plot.’

‘Well done, Pilot. Up periscope!’

The men in the control room watched expectantly as Hamilton carried out a quick preliminary sweep of the horizon, and waited quietly while he worked his way slowly around the full circle. It was apparent from the tension in his hands and the set of his shoulders that the rendezvous vessel was nowhere in sight; but the expression on his face gave nothing away as he closed the steering handles with a decisive snap and stepped back from the column.

‘Down periscope!’ He turned to Scott. ‘Are you quite certain of our position, Pilot?’

‘Yes, sir. I took some star sights an hour before dawn.

Even allowing for an unexpected alteration in the wind, I’d guarantee we’re within a mile of the position you gave me yesterday.’

Hamilton rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Despite his outward skepticism, he had complete faith in Scott’s ability as a navigator. So, for the moment, he could only assume that Album’s supply vessel had not arrived. Unless◦– and he tried to keep the suspicion out of his mind◦– something had happened to it.

‘What direction is Macao, Alistair?’

Scott checked the chart. ‘North-east by east, sir.’

Hamilton waited for five minutes, raised the periscope again, and drew another blank. He was certain that Alburra would not let him down, but where the hell was his ship?

‘Stand by to surface. Duty Watch to close up◦– negative deck party.’ He glanced at Scott apologetically. ‘It’s not that I doubt you, Alistair, but I want another sun sight.’

Scott grinned understandingly and reached for his sextant. Then, moving across to the conning tower ladder, he waited to follow the duty watch up on deck.

‘Surface!’

‘Up helm ’planes! Blow main ballast and close all vents!’

‘Ten feet, sir.’

Hamilton started up the ladder, unclipped the upper hatch, and pushed it open. The normally clean-tasting sea air seemed slightly tainted with oil fumes but he put it down to the fuel leak from the damaged bunker and, dismissing it from his mind, hauled himself up on to the bridge. Picking up his glasses he carried out a quick preliminary sweep of the horizon, while the look-outs hurried to their positions on the port and starboard sides of the conning tower.

‘What do you make of the oil slick, sir?’ Scott asked casually, peering over the side as he lifted his sextant from its case.

Hamilton glanced down at the sea. The surface of the water was streaked by oil and, for a few moments, he assumed it must be coming from Rapier’s own damaged tank. A more careful examination, however, revealed that the rainbow tinted trail stretched well ahead of the submarine’s beam. So it couldn’t be leaking fuel from the bunker. At first he thought it must mark the grave of a recently sunken ship, but the slick was too long and narrow◦– and the oil seemed fresh rather than dirty. He called Scott over for a discussion.

A detailed search with their binoculars revealed that the slick was spreading over a wider area to the south, rather than to the north and, significantly, it seemed to be thicker on the surface ahead of the bows where it had apparently had less time to disperse. Having compared notes, they agreed that the slick was following the direction of the wind which was blowing astern and from the south. Consequently, the source lay somewhere to the north. Any further speculation was abruptly ended by a sudden shout from the port look-out.

‘Ship hull down and dead ahead, sir!’

Hamilton put the binoculars to his eyes and saw the ungainly sails of a large junk peeping coyly over the rim of the horizon.

‘Full ahead together! Deck parties to stand by.’

But even as Rapier increased speed towards the distant vessel Hamilton could feel his optimism slowly evaporating. The oil on the surface boded bad news and the fact that the junk was drifting before the wind and away from the rendezvous position suggested that something was seriously wrong.

By the time Rapier had drawn close to the drifting vessel, the black slick polluting the surface was thicker and the acrid fumes rising up from the sea was making the eyes of the men on the bridge of the submarine smart and sting. Streaks of oil were now clearly visible down the sides of the junk and the flapping rudder showed she was not under control.

‘Foredeck party topsides at the double.’

By the time Morgan’s men had emerged from the gun tower and assembled on the foredeck, less than a hundred yards of oil polluted water separated the two vessels. Rapier was lying broadside on to the wind and Hamilton had to brace himself against the motion of the submarine as his binoculars scanned the abandoned junk for signs of life. But the decks were empty and the scattered oil barrels clattering noisily against the bulwarks and sliding from one side to the other as the boat rolled in the swell, warned him that disaster had already struck.

The deserted junk posed no apparent danger, but Hamilton knew the value of caution. It was tempting to assume that the abandoned vessel was harmless◦– but he remembered the Royal Navy had often employed a similar ploy during the Kaiser war when their deadly Q ships hunted Germany’s U-boats to death by masquerading as innocent merchantmen. And, despite the evidence of his own eyes, he wanted to make sure he was not walking into a trap. Bending over the voice pipe he ordered the helmsman to circle the junk at half-speed.

Rapier moved slowly across the stern and started to pass down the lee side of the abandoned vessel, while Hamilton continued to search the deck and upperworks for some sign of the crew.

‘Christ Almighty! What the hell’s that…?’

Hamilton broke off his examination of the poop as he heard Scott’s shocked exclamation. A chilling undertone of horror in the navigator’s voice sent an involuntary shiver down his spine and he turned his attention to midship section of the junk. The blood drained from his face as he saw the reason for Scott’s incredulous shout.

A naked body was spreadeagled against the side of the deckhouse. It hung suspended like a limp starfish, the wrists and ankles secured by ropes to the four corners of the primitive wooden structure, with the head drooped forward and the exposed flesh covered with hundreds of crawling flies. The breeze blowing the tangled black hair across the face made recognition impossible, but a quick inspection with the binoculars revealed that it was the body of a woman.

Hamilton’s hands trembled as he lowered the glasses. Although it was impossible to see the woman’s face, he knew instinctively that it was Chai Chen. Bringing his emotions under control and taking a deep breath, Hamilton stepped away from the rail and moved towards the voice pipe.

‘Stop motors… slow ahead starboard.’ Rapier’s bows swung towards the junk and he leaned over the for’ard screen. ‘Morgan! I’m going alongside. Use a grappling hook to secure for boarding.’

Returning to the starboard wing he waited for the submarine to drift closer. He forced himself not to look at the obscenity of the tortured girl stretched rigidly against the side of the deckhouse and he concentrated all of his attention into the task of bringing Rapier safely alongside the abandoned junk.

‘Stop starboard motor… slow astern both. Full starboard helm.’

Morgan balanced himself on the edge of the ballast tank, swung the weighted rope like a cowboy with a lasso, judged the distance with an expert eye, and let go. The grappling hook soared up from the deck of the submarine, landed squarely over the weatherworn bulwarks in the bow of the junk, and the line pulled taut as the deck party hauled in the slack.

‘Line secured, sir.’

‘Take over, Alistair. Keep her close alongside.’ Hamilton swung his leg over the conning tower coaming and shinned down the iron rungs to join the gunner’s mate and the men waiting on the foredeck. ‘Well done, Chief. I’m going aboard first. Once I’m safely over I want you and two men to follow and back me up.’

Clinging to the life line, Hamilton edged gingerly down the slippery slopes of the weed-encrusted ballast tank, balanced himself precariously at the water’s edge and carefully gauged the swing of the submarine as the two vessels drifted together in the wind. At exactly the right moment, he leapt across the narrow gap, grabbed for a handhold, and hauled himself up the slab side of the junk onto the deck. Pausing at the rail, he signaled to Morgan to follow and then made his way along the oil-stained deck towards the wooden shelter amidships.

As he came around the side of the deckhouse and saw Chai Chen’s body at close-quarters for the first time he stopped, held on to the rail for support, and was violently sick in the scuppers. Wiping the back of his hand across his mouth and steeling himself forward he started to unfasten the ropes Mihoro had used to secure his victim in position.

Chai Chen was dead. And the ugly cuts and burns on her body showed that her death had not been easy. Hamilton tried not to look as he freed the ropes binding her wrists and ankles and lowered the pitiful remains of the girl onto the deck with a gentle compassion surprising for a man with his reputation.

‘Anything I can do, sir?’ Morgan asked as Hamilton found a length of ragged canvas with which to cover the body.

Rapier’s commander knelt beside Chai Chen in silence and it was not until the gunner’s mate repeated the question that he came out of his reverie.

‘Thanks, Chief◦– I can manage. But there’s one thing you can do. Most of the De Gama Company’s junks are fitted with old Packard automobile engines◦– I remember Alburra telling me about them during one of my visits. I daresay this one’s the same as the others. See if you can locate some cans of petrol. Bring one to me and use the others to soak the decking and upperworks.’

Morgan returned a few minutes later to find Hamilton still kneeling beside the makeshift shroud. He put a two gallon can of Amoco on the deck in front of the skipper and then made his way to the stern to help the other submariners sprinkle the remaining gasoline containers over the weather worn woodwork of the junk.

Hamilton rose slowly to his feet, unscrewed the brass cap of the can, and tilted the container so that the inflammable spirit splattered over the canvas sheet covering Chai Chen’s body. When it was completely empty, he threw it into the scuppers and made his way back to the poop. There was nothing more he could do◦– nothing except to swear revenge on the barbarous savages responsible for the atrocity. The expression on his face was carved from granite as he approached the Rapier’s gunner.

‘Did your men find anyone else aboard, Chief!’

Morgan nodded vaguely towards the bows. ‘Only an old Chinaman. His legs looked like they’d been broken with the butt end of a rifle. He was dead too.’ The Welshman paused for a moment at the memory of Chen Yu’s agonized death mask. ‘What sort of bastards could torture an old man and a girl, sir?’

Hamilton’s face lost none of its grimness. ‘I don’t know, Chief. But if I ever find them…’ He left the threat unfinished. ‘Get your men back to Rapier. I can’t risk staying on the surface any longer.’

Restraining an impulse to go back to the girl, Hamilton walked to the port side of the junk and waited while Morgan and the two sailors jumped on to the submarine’s foredeck. Then, having prised the grappling hook out of the bulwarks, he leapt across the narrow width of water separating the two vessels, and joined them.

‘Get below, Chief and secure the gun hatch. We’ll be diving in a couple of minutes.’ Tossing the hook for Morgan to catch, he made his way unhurriedly down the foredeck, swung himself up the rungs on the outside of the conning tower, and dropped on to the bridge. ‘Stand by to dive … all hands below!’ He bent over the voice pipe as Scott and the look-outs slid into the hatchway and went down the ladder into the control room. ‘Slow astern both motors. Full port rudder. Call all hands to diving stations, Number One.’

‘Aye aye, sir. Standing by.’

As Rapier went astern and backed slowly away from the junk Hamilton walked to the signal locker behind the binnacle, unfastened the watertight door, and took out a Very pistol. Slipping a cartridge into the breach, he snapped it shut, and moved to the starboard, side of the bridge. He waited until the submarine was safely clear and then, aiming carefully at the base of the tall bamboo main mast, he squeezed the trigger.

The signal cartridge hissed across the water and struck a pile of petrol-soaked sacks where it came to rest, buzzing and sizzling like an angry bee as the fuse burned down. The sudden flash of the flare ignited a pool of gasoline in the shadow of the deckhouse, there was a violent explosion, and within seconds the entire deck from poop to bows was a soaring mass of roaring flames. Hamilton lowered the pistol and watched. He was not a religious man but, alone on the bridge with no one to see, he lowered his head in silent prayer…

‘I don’t suppose we’ll ever know who was responsible, sir,’ Mannon observed quietly as Hamilton clipped the lower hatch and came down the final rungs of the ladder into the bright sanity of the control room.

‘I don’t suppose we will,’ Rapier’s commander agreed grimly. ‘But I’m quite certain about one thing◦– only the Japs would have done something like that. And from now on any enemy ship we meet up with will be sunk without warning. Furthermore, no prisoners will be taken.’

Mannon made no reply. The skipper had been through a bad experience and the black mood would soon pass. Most of the Rapier’s crew had heard what had happened on board the junk and Chai Chen’s relationship with their captain was common knowledge. His reaction was understandable in the circumstances.

‘Where to now, sir?’ Mannon asked in an attempt to change the subject and to direct Hamilton’s mind towards other matters. Brooding would only make things worse. ‘O’Brien says we’ve less than half capacity in the bunkers. If we can’t get hold of some more fuel our maximum surface range will be down to two thousand miles at the most.’

Hamilton nodded. Although his expression had lost none of its grimness he seemed to be thinking rationally again.

‘We’ll make for Charlotte Island to begin with, Number One. The TGM reports only four torpedoes left so we’ll have to go to the island to load up the spares. And at the same time, we can top up our water and stores. After that we go hunting for a tanker.’

‘But supposing the Japs have already found the island, sir?’

‘I doubt that they have, Number One. Only Rapier’s officers know about it…’ He paused for a moment as he remembered. ‘And of course, my Portuguese friends.’

‘They might have forced the girl to tell them,’ Mannon suggested.

Hamilton’s face blazed in anger. He swung round as Mannon put the question and, for a brief moment, the submarine’s executive officer thought that the captain was going to strike him. Hamilton controlled his fury with superhuman effort.

‘If they had forced her to talk she would have told them about the rendezvous and we would have walked straight into an ambush. The fact that the Japs merely threw the oil overboard and then left the area shows she kept her mouth shut.’ Hamilton shivered as he recalled what Chai Chen had suffered to protect Rapier and her crew. His shoulders bowed suddenly and, without another word, he turned on his heel and made his way to the privacy of the wardroom to be alone with his thoughts….