Yashimoto's Last Dive

Eleven

At first light Kagumi and his men set out on the journey to the African village. The inflatable was halfway across the creek when the sound of rifle shots came from the direction of the narrows. Kagumi realized they must have been fired by the sentries on the other side of the bluff. He opened the throttle wide and headed for the narrows, the inflatable bumping and spraying its way across wind-rippled water. Once round the bluff he saw the drifting catamaran, the body of an African slumped over the stern, blood oozing from his head, an arm thrown out over the outrigger. Two men with rifles stood at the water’s edge.

The bigger man answered. ‘He was paddling the catamaran out of the creek, sir. Three times we shouted to him to stop, but he wouldn’t. When we fired a warning shot he paddled faster. So we had to…’ He shrugged, as if unwilling to complete the sentence.

Kagumi accepted that it was nobody’s fault. The sentries had obeyed orders. It was unfortunate that the villagers did not yet know that it was forbidden to put to sea. The warning shot must have caused the African to lose his nerve. Had he made a slightly later start the incident could not have taken place. Unfortunate, decided Kagumi, but war was war.

With the catamaran and its dead occupant towing astern, he steered towards the huts under the palm trees. Their inhabitants would realize now the importance of obeying the orders he was about to give them. On balance, he concluded, the incident was probably a good thing. He was sure that would be the view of Yashimoto, whom he could see standing under the leafy branches which concealed I-357’s periscope standards.

Yashimoto lowered his binoculars. It was evident what had happened. Not for the first time he congratulated himself on having a First Lieutenant as capable and quick thinking as Kagumi. An excellent officer, he could always be relied upon to do the right thing at the right time. It was unfortunate that an African had been killed, but the example set would do no harm. Though the goodwill of the villagers was desirable, they could not be permitted to go out to sea. Once on the fishing grounds they would meet other fishermen and the news that a submarine was hiding in the creek would soon spread. The safety of I-357 and her crew had at all times to be paramount.

A good deal happened on board in the next few hours. Kagumi returned with two catamarans in tow, an African in one of them. The catamarans were secured astern of the submarine, and the African was taken on board.

The villagers understand your orders, sir,’ Kagumi reported. Though some of the women moaned and wailed when I handed over the body.’ A deprecatory laugh came from the First Lieutenant. Trying to explain in sign language what had happened wasn’t easy. But in the end the message got through.’

The African you brought back?’ inquired Yashimoto.

‘He can speak a dialect which is possibly English or South African. He has worked on the gold mines in South Africa, near a place he called Goli. Apparently many Africans from Mozambique do so.’

Yashimoto permitted himself a rare smile. ‘How did sign language tell you that?’

‘He pretended to dig, picked up a stone, held it against the gold-coloured anklets the women wore. He pointed to himself several times, said, “Goli, South Africa,” and again went through the motions of digging.’ Kagumi paused. ‘After that…’

Yashimoto held up a peremptory hand. That will do, First Lieutenant. Why did you bring him across?’

‘Hasumu was studying English at university in Yokahama before he was called up,’ explained Kagumi. ‘It is possible that he will understand the African. I thought that might be useful.’ The First Lieutenant had difficulty in concealing a yawn. The gesture was not lost on Yashimoto. ‘You have done well, Kagumi,’ he said. ‘Now take a rest. It must be a long time since you slept.’

The inflatable with Sato and his crew got back to the submarine at half-past seven that morning. Yashimoto’s concern at their late return was mollified by the quality of the chart the Navigating Officer had made. He was also much relieved by Sato’s report that there were no signs of human habitation other than the huts in the creek. Looking at the chart it struck Yashimoto that Creek Island was shaped like a wolf’s head: the creek its mouth, the bluff the big fang which shut out the view from seaward. Perhaps he should have called it Wolf Island. ‘Later,’ he told Sato. ‘You must complete the chart with soundings in the creek and its approaches.’

The hills which enclosed the creek and the bluff which jutted into the narrows not only hid the submarine from seaward but provided shelter from the prevailing wind. The steep, wooded slopes rising up from the water’s edge would, he realized, cast shadows over the creek through most of the day. An enemy warship attempting to enter must, on rounding the bluff, come within point blank range of the submarine’s forward torpedo tubes; finally, the creek was so narrow, its sides so high, that bombing runs by aircraft would be difficult. For purposes of defence, decided Yashimoto, Creek Island could scarcely have been better. The disadvantages were that the hills, and the leafy camouflage on the conning-tower, limited the function of the search receiver, while the hydrophones could only be effective over a restricted sector where the narrows led into the creek’s basin. Distant warning of a ship approaching would be difficult at night.

The advantages the island’s geography conferred on the submarine were shared in quite different ways by the African fishing community. Small wonder, thought Yashimoto, that they had sited their huts where they were.

A short time after sunrise that morning the seven sentries guarding the land approaches to I-357, and the petty officer and men from the inflatable on duty in the creek, returned on board having been relieved by personnel from the spare crew pool with Sub-Lieutenant Nikaido in command in place of Lieutenant Matsuhito.

At about eight o’clock the operator on the sound receiver reported the approach of an aircraft on a southerly bearing. Three short blasts were immediately sounded on the bridge siren and all activity in I-357 ceased. In accordance with orders the sentries at once took cover. Camouflaged with foliage, the inflatable at the creek entrance nosed into the bank to hide under overhanging branches.

The atmosphere in the control-room became tense, no one moving, many eyes looking at the deckhead as the distant drone increased in volume until it passed overhead in a crescendo of sound, only to become steadily fainter as the aircraft drew away.

‘Flying low.’ The Captain spoke in a subdued voice. ‘No more than a few hundred feet, probably. If he does not circle and return soon, all is well.’

The First Lieutenant nodded assent. During the next few minutes tension in the control-room slowly diminished. Yashimoto looked towards the cabinet where the sound operator sat, staring blankly, his hands pressing the headphones to his ears. ‘Do you still hear it, Hasumu?’ he demanded.

The operator shook his head. ‘It has gone, sir.’

The Captain turned to Kagumi. ‘Sound the carry-on, First Lieutenant.’

The long shrill blast of the siren travelled down the conning-tower to the control-room.

Within thirty minutes the performance was repeated. This time the aircraft came in from the north and passed over the creek on a southerly heading. Again it gave no indication of having sighted anything untoward. Whether it was the first aircraft returning or another, Yashimoto did not know. Because of the time, and the direction from which it had come, he assumed its base was Kilindini — there was no means of telling. The sentry on duty beneath the foliage on the after gun-platform had reported that both aircraft were Catalinas.

Wearing greasy, sweat-stained khaki shirt and shorts, the pouches under his tired eyes darker and more prominent than usual, Yashimoto addressed the officers and petty officers gathered in the control-room. Their dishevelled, soiled appearance, their weary faces, matched those of their commanding officer. Standing well clear of the conning-tower from which came sounds of hammering and drilling, he began by explaining that strong tropical sunlight would by the end of the day have withered much of the submarine’s leafy camouflage. ‘We’ll have to put fresh layers on top,’ he said, running his tongue across his lower lip. ‘This will mean another night of hard work. But we shall begin it well rested. Until midday all men not otherwise employed will clean and tidy the boat. After so many weeks at sea it is dirty and foul-smelling. This is not your fault. It is unavoidable on a long patrol. But now we have the opportunity to wash-and-brush-up…’ The Captain stopped, showed his teeth in a dry smile. ‘The litter, the grease, the peelings, the food droppings and waste material — all must be collected and made ready for disposal tonight. Each compartment is to be scrubbed and washed down with sea-water, then sprayed with disinfectant. Mess-tins, plates, cutlery and mugs must be scoured and stowed away neatly. The filth, the untidiness, the foul smell in the boat must be gone by noon. After that…’ His voice was drowned by the high pitched whine of an electric drill in the conning-tower where the lower half of a man’s body showed on the ladder. Yashimoto frowned at the First Lieutenant. ‘Tell him to stop that confounded noise until I’ve finished.’

Kagumi shouted up the conning-tower and the drilling stopped. Yashimoto said, The engineroom department makes excellent progress with the repairs. That is good, but they must not silence your Captain.’ With a self-conscious grin he cleared his throat and straightened his cap. ‘All men not detailed for special duties will rest until 1830. Sunset’, he added, ‘will be at 1823. Working parties for tonight will be the same as they were in the early hours of this morning.’ Looking round at the tired, grubby faces, his manner softened. ‘I realize that in this heat we would all like to swim but that’s not possible. Apart from the danger of sharks, nobody may go on deck during daylight hours unless sent by the duty officer. The risk of detection from the air is too great. Further reconnaissance by aircraft may not take place until late in the afternoon, but we cannot take chances. They may come at any time.’ He glanced at the sheet of notes on the chart-table, went on: ‘Now an item of good news.’ Yashimoto’s mouth smiled but not his eyes. ‘The First Lieutenant tells me that the Africans draw their water from a spring behind the huts. Tonight an inflatable goes across with empty drums. Tomorrow we wash ourselves and our clothing in fresh water. That will be a luxury.’

Not quite accurate, thought Sato: We will wash our clothing, the wardroom steward will wash yours. But I do give you credit for having restricted yourself to the daily ration of four mugs of fresh water a day while we were on Pacific patrols.

Yashimoto folded the sheet of notes, placed it in his shirt pocket. ‘That is all,’ he said. ‘You may carry on.’

Restless had rounded Cape Delgado and set out on the last leg to Rovuma Bay when radar reported an aircraft approaching from the north. Not long afterwards it could be seen ahead, the distant speck growing steadily larger. When close the Catalina began to fly in a wide circle, the noise of its engines masking all other sounds, the boatlike fuselage gleaming in the sunlight.

Over his shoulder the Captain called, ‘Make our pennant numbers, Yeoman.’

The Yeoman aimed an Aldis lamp and its shutter began to click. An answering light blinked from the aircraft. The Yeoman passed the pennant numbers, the Catalina acknowledged, adding, ‘Any joy?’ The Yeoman repeated the message aloud.

Barratt said, ‘Make — Not yet but getting warmer. Strict W/T silence imperative. Please inform Captain (D).’

The shutter of Restless’s lamp chattered busily. The Catalina acknowledged with, ‘Will do. Can we assist?’

Barratt shook his head emphatically as the Yeoman repeated the message. ‘Make — Thanks but please keep clear. Your presence draws attention to us.’

With a final, ‘Will do,’ the Catalina climbed away on a southerly course.

In a quiet aside Geoffrey Lawson, the officer-of-the-watch who shared the bridge with Sean O’Brien, said, ‘Pretty unfriendly, weren’t we? The only thing that’s getting warmer is the weather.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t be knowing about that, Geoff, but I think the Old Man’s right in not wanting to advertise our whereabouts. In the Western Approaches we learnt…’ ‘Here we go again,’ interrupted Lawson. ‘And what was it we learnt in the Western Approaches?’

O’Brien looked across to where the Captain sat in his chair on the compass platform. ‘To keep a low profile if you hoped to find a submarine before it found you. Remember Max Horton’s golden rule? Cut the cackle?’

‘I wasn’t in the Western Approaches — and anyway he’s Admiral Sir Max Horton to you, my lad.’ Lawson raised a disapproving eyebrow. ‘Never forget — there are few more lowly forms of marine life than a Sub-Lieutenant RNVR.’

‘Ah, and that sounds like the good old RN,’ said O’Brien, one eye still on the Captain. ‘But it’s fine to know that some of us do it for the pleasure and not the money.’

The river had pushed a semi-circle of brown silt far out into Rovuma Bay, and it was there that Restless reversed course and began her search to the south.

The heat of an already oppressive day was tempered by a light breeze from the south-east which rustled the surface of the glittering sea. A few miles to starboard the coast showed thinly through the heat haze, the swell breaking on its offshore reefs throwing up sheets of white foam which seemed to hang lazily in the air.

With few exceptions the men on deck, their bodies deeply tanned, wore only white shorts. To those on duty on the bridge, however, no such licence was permitted. ‘I’m not having a lot of half-nude gorillas on my bridge,’ Barratt had informed the First Lieutenant on joining the ship in Colombo, thereby ending the dispensation granted by the previous captain.

Cape Delgado was rounded an hour after leaving Rovuma Bay, and the destroyer’s progress to the south became painstakingly slow. The many alterations of course and speed in the inshore passages between the islands and the mainland, and the stops to lower and recover the motorboat and skimmer, were responsible; the former was used to investigate promising islets and inlets, and the latter to question catamaran fishermen. For this task Peter Morrow, armed with a photograph of a submarine, was proving invaluable. The recently joined Sub-Lieutenant, born and brought up in Kenya, was fluent in Kiswahili, the lingua franca of the coast Africans. This, combined with an easy-going manner, ensured his rapport with the fishermen.

In the chartroom Dodds divided frowning attention between the plotting table where a stylus traced the destroyer’s course through the channels between the islands and the mainland — every reef and sandbank, every shoal and shallow for him a threat of imminent disaster — and the echo-sounder which recorded the depths of water through which Restless passed. And finally, the tide-tables which served only to compound his worries.

At noon, looking a vastly troubled man, he reported to the Captain that average speed made good since Cape Delgado was only 6.3 knots.

The Captain was in a wing of the bridge examining an Arab dhow through binoculars. ‘Not bad, Pilot,’ he said, ‘when you consider how we’ve been buggering about.’

With its lateen sail filled by the south-easter, the dhow was making up the coast in the narrow channel between the mainland and the islands off Cape Nondo where mangrove swamps gave way to bushclad slopes which in turn led to a hilltop where a baobab tree stood in solitary grandeur.

The Captain lowered his binoculars, pointed to it. ‘See that,’ he said. ‘I expect the skipper of that dhow uses it as a leading mark. Just as his Arab ancestors have done for the last thousand years.’

Not bad for the Old Man, thought Charlie Dodds, almost poetic. ‘I expect so, sir,’ was his dutiful reply.