Yashimoto's Last Dive

Twelve

By early afternoon the pattern of the search had become established. The motorboat and skimmer were now no longer hoisted inboard on completion of a mission, experience having shown that time was saved if they were left in the water to follow Restless until needed to investigate; the destroyer’s speed reduced to that of the motorboat, the slowest of the trio.

Radar had been shut down after passing Cape Delgado on the journey south; to compensate for this the number of lookouts had been doubled. When near the small port of Mocimboa da Praia, a northbound coaster was sighted by the masthead lookout. Barratt altered course to seaward to avoid being seen inshore; not that he was unduly worried on that account. The ‘searching for survivors’ story could always be used.

Barratt was in the chartroom when Duckworth arrived in person to deliver a signal from Captain (D).

‘With W/T silence, I couldn’t acknowledge it,’ he explained as he handed it over.

‘Of course not, Duckworth. They’ll understand.’ Barratt read the signal and with an exclamation of annoyance put it in the chartroom clip. Addressed to Restless, repeated Deputy C-in-C, it read: Return here if no contact by sunset today.

Barratt raged inwardly. How on earth could he be expected to complete a thorough search of the coast in the twelve hours which had elapsed since Kilindini’s signal ordering it that morning. There were still fifty-five miles of coastline and islands to be checked before they reached Matemo Island, twenty miles off which Fort Nebraska had gone down. There

were another forty miles of coast south of that where a damaged submarine could have hidden. A worthwhile search was only possible in daylight. With almost a hundred miles still to be done, at an average speed of about six knots, there wasn’t a hope of finishing before sunset the following day.

The whole thing was preposterous. He saw the hand of the SOO behind the recall signal. Russel didn’t like him, they were on different wavelengths. And he didn’t much like Gloomy Russel for that matter. A dreary individual, decided Barratt. He suspected that the incident which had sparked mutual dislike had taken place soon after Restless arrived in Kilindini from Colombo with other units of the Eastern Fleet. He, Russel and others, had gone off to the flagship in the same motorboat. In accordance with custom the coxswain had gone alongside the starboard gangway to disembark the Captains of Restless and Resister who were piped on board and saluted by the officer-of-the-watch and his minions. Russel, though senior in rank to Barratt, had remained in the motorboat with several other officers until the coxswain took it round to the port gangway where they disembarked, their arrival on the quarter-deck not qualifying for the ceremonial ‘pipe’ since they did not command ships. Later, on the return journey to the shore, Russel had remarked, somewhat sardonically, that using different gangways for officers arriving at and departing from the flagship in the same boat struck him as a monumental waste of time, particularly with a war on.

Barratt had replied, ‘It is a very old custom, pre-Nelson in fact. Perhaps it has something to do with the scroll on the wall in the Captain-of-the-Fleet’s office?’

‘Oh really, what?’

‘I’m not sure of the exact wording, but approximately, it reads: It is the custom of their Lordships to give preference to those who serve at sea.'

Turning a gloomy eye on him, Russel had remained silent. Later, Barratt regretted the remark. As Staff Officer Operations Russel was on the shore staff. Older than Barratt, and a good deal longer on the retired list he was, notwithstanding

his rank, less suitable for command. It was not surprising, therefore, that he had been given a shore job. Barratt knew this, and knew too that Russel was happy to be in Kilindini, not too far from his farm at Naivasha, whence his wife made her not infrequent visits to Mombasa. The incident had been trivial enough, but Barratt felt it was reponsible for Russel’s chilly manner.

As for Restless's recall, he thought it likely that Captain (D) and the SOO had agreed that Catalinas could carry out a more effective search than a destroyer; and they were probably right, he conceded privately. But that wasn’t going to change his plans. He’d already made up his mind. Restless would not return to Kilindini until the search had been completed. Nor would he break wireless silence to plead, argue or explain.

Something which Captain (D) and SOO didn’t know, and would never know, was what the search meant to him. From the moment Corrigan had reported that the submarine was Japanese, Barratt’s determination to hunt and find it had become an obsession. He had been presented with an opportunity to do something about what had happened to Caroline. For this reason he no longer saw the submarine in the context of prosecuting the War against the enemy. It was much more than that — nothing less than a personal matter between himself and the Japanese. There had for a long time been in his mind an indelible image; the harsh face of the commandant of Changi Gaol. The image persisted but the face now was that of the commander of the Japanese submarine. And because the imagery was a product of hatred, the face was not a pleasant one.

By late afternoon there was to Barratt’s tired eyes a wearying sameness about the coastline and its islands; blue seas lapping dazzling white beaches fringed with coconut palms; the higher ground bushclad, with clumps of indigenous trees overlooked at times by feathery casuarina trees. On the seaward side of the islands the surf curled and foamed where the swells broke on the reefs. There were glimpses of palm-thatched native huts, the only other signs of human activity the catamarans fishing off the reefs.

The water was so transparent in the shallows that rocks and coral reefs could be seen from the bridge, dark shapes against the sandy bottom where shafts of sunlight danced to the music of the sea.

In the skimmer, Peter Morrow had got the average time of interrogation down to a few minutes per catamaran. ‘It’s a fine art,’ he’d explained to anyone prepared to listen during a snatched sandwich in the wardroom at midday. ‘You flash the photograph, say, “Seen one of these?” The African stares at it, shakes his head, grins and offers you a fish. You refuse politely, saying, “May your catamaran bear many fish and your wives many children”. With these courtesies done, you open the throttle and speed away. The whole thing takes just under three minutes. I need a beer, Docker. What about you?’

But as the hours passed and the motorboat and skimmer bustled about their respective duties, their reports uniformly negative, Barratt’s spirits sagged and the enthusiasm of the morning gave way to disenchantment. Of course they’d never find the wretched submarine. Why had he ever thought they would? Even if it couldn’t dive, the places to hide were so many, it was like looking for a needle in a haystack.

The Engineer Officer, Gareth Edwards, who’d served in submarines, had not helped Barratt’s mood when he came to the bridge in the afternoon. In the course of a discussion he had pointed out that a hole in the conning-tower did not necessarily mean a submarine couldn’t dive. ‘With the lower hatch shut,’ he explained, ‘you can dive. The holed conning-tower itself becomes a free-flooding area. But you can trim the boat to look after that.’

‘Surely there must be some problems, Chiefy. With a ruddy great hole in the conning-tower.’

Edwards said, ‘Yes, indeed. The surfacing drill is affected, and crash dives are not practical. But neither of these prevent the boat from diving. They are what you might call operational inconveniences.’ Barratt had not chosen to answer, but his resolve had remained unshaken. He would stick to his instinct. For him the deciding factor was the massacre of Fort Nebraska's survivors. If the Japanese submarine could dive, what was the point of that senseless killing? So the search went on; and would go on, if necessary, until nightfall on the following day.

Towards sunset a Catalina was sighted some distance away. Flying low over the islands, heading north, it turned towards Restless as it came closer. A few minutes later it had passed about a quarter of a mile away to port. Barratt watched the flying boat through binoculars, annoyed that it had come so close; but it neither circled nor attempted to signal and he was grateful for that.

Soon afterwards there was a heavy rainstorm which drenched the bridge and everybody on it; but since it lowered the temperature and countered the oppressive heat it was more than welcome.

Hutch Hutchison put down the phone. The duty officer at Base says Catalina Freddy-Orange’s ETA is 2205. It will have covered the coast between here and Port Amelia on both the outward and return legs.’ He looked at the clock above the wall chart. ‘Let’s see. Time 1800. It should sight Restless soon if she’s still in the Cape Delgado area.’

The SOO said, 7/ is the operative word. It would be interesting to know exactly what Barratt meant by “not yet but getting warmer”.’

Captain (D) blew his nose noisily. ‘Presumably means that he was on to some sort of clue. But what sort? That’s the sixty-four dollar question. Any ideas, Haddingham?’

Jim Haddingham, a Lieutenant Commander on Captain (D)’s staff, was Flotilla Navigating Officer. ‘Not much in the way of hiding places between Rovuma Bay and Cape Delgado,’ he said. ‘But the chart shows plenty of possibles south of the Cape.’

The SOO stroked his chin with thumb and forefinger. ‘His request to the Catalina to keep clear because it was drawing attention to Restless…’ He looked at Captain (D). ‘What d’you make of that?’

‘Pretty obvious isn’t it? He didn’t want attention drawn to Restless's presence.’

The SOO looked unconvinced. ‘Presumably anybody who could see the Catalina circling was likely to have seen Restless anyway.’

Captain (D) shook his head. ‘Not necessarily, Russel. A submarine concealed behind an island or in a creek might see the aircraft circling without being able to see what it was circling over. If the aircraft’s signal lamp was flashing he’d know it was talking to a surface vessel.’ He turned to Haddingham. ‘You and Barratt were at Dartmouth together. What sort of chap is he? I know him as a reliable but…’ He pursed his lips. ‘Let’s say a run-of-the-mill destroyer captain. But then he’s only been with us since we got here and ceased to operate as a flotilla.’

‘He’s an odd sort of a chap,’ said the Flotilla Navigating Officer. ‘Not the type one noticed much in those days. Quiet, a bit bookish, didn’t shine at games though he was a good cross-country runner. Used to enter for them all and win ’em all.’

‘I can believe that,’ Captain (D) nodded understandingly. ‘He’s one of those gaunt, wiry types. They usually are good runners.’

Haddingham waited for Captain (D) to finish, before saying, ‘It was later that he began to be noticed, I suppose.’

‘In what way?’ Captain (D)’s head was cocked on one side.

‘He was inclined to be accident-prone. Ran into bits of trouble. Odd sorts of scrapes. For example, as a sublieutenant in destroyers he got involved in a mock duel with a midshipman in Valetta. Fought it out on the iron deck with Very pistols. Both young men rather tight. One of the Very flares landed in the sternsheets of a motorboat coming alongside the starboard gangway. The Captain’s dinner guests were in it. So was the Captain.’

Captain (D) chuckled. ‘He was not amused, I dare say. Anything else?’

‘Other incidents of that sort, you know. Usually after he’d had a few drinks. He wrecked a pin-table in a Chatham pub on one occasion. Told the publican that a notice on the machine invited payment of sixpence in return for three playing balls. He pointed out that it had jammed and failed to deliver the balls although it had got his sixpence. The gross breach of contract had, he said, compelled him to take steps to recover the sixpence.’ Haddingham laughed. ‘The pubkeeper reported him and the story got into the local press.’

Captain (D) looked mildly surprised. ‘He doesn’t strike me as that sort of man. Rather quiet, I thought. He left the service as a Lieutenant, didn’t he?’

Haddingham said, ‘Yes. He did. With about six years between his stripes. He had a frightful car smash when his ship was in Portsmouth. Coming back from a hunt ball somewhere in the country. A cabinet minister’s daughter was his passenger. Her face was badly cut up. The police said he’d been drinking. There was a hell of a row. He left the Service not long afterwards. Went into the family wine business. That was a few years before the War began.’

‘Shouldn’t have thought the family wine business was the best place.’ Captain (D) was lost in thought. ‘I suppose most of us did some rather stupid things when we were young. Bad luck though, that car accident. Both for the girl and his naval career.’

‘There were other scrapes. He was, as I’ve said, accident-prone,’ continued Haddingham. ‘But to his credit, he was popular with the lower deck. Very good with them. Always ready to help men in trouble. Never threw his rank about.’

The SOO fanned himself with a signal pad. ‘You seem to know a lot about him.’

‘I got to know him well in the training cruiser. And later on the Subs’ Course at Greenwich. He was an amusing chap, and a good friend. Never let you down. I liked him. He was a funny mix. Half quiet and reserved, half rather wild. Our paths crossed several times after that.’

The SOO said, ‘I’ve always wondered how he got command of a fleet destroyer.’

Captain (D) said, ‘I know the answer to that. Made a name for himself at Dunkirk. Got his DSC there. The V & W he commanded shot down a couple of aircraft and took off a lot of people.’

‘I see.’ The SOO looked gloomily through the open french windows down to Kilindini harbour where the long stretch of water reflected the light of the setting sun and the camouflaged hulls of warships at anchor.