Yashimoto's Last Dive

Thirteen

An interested spectator of the day’s events was Brad Corrigan. Wearing white shorts from the ship’s clothing store, he spent most of the day on deck watching the comings and goings of the motorboat and skimmer, gleaning something of what was happening from scraps of conversation around him.

The American’s bloodshot eyes, the scratches on his face and upper body, were reminders of the long night in the water; apart from these he seemed in good shape. Convinced by what he had seen that night, he did not believe the submarine could have dived. For him the search made sense, he admired the thorough way in which it was being conducted, and had a burning desire to be involved. He would have liked to be in the skimmer, the outboard engine screaming its head off, its propeller throwing up plumes of white foam as it leapt and bounced over the sea.

His interest had been heightened by the low-flying Cata-linas, the sound of their engines deafening as they flew overhead. All in all he reckoned the Limeys were doing a good job. If they didn’t find the Jap it wouldn’t be for want of trying.

Some time soon, he reckoned, he’d request to see the Captain again. Ask him couldn’t he, Corrigan, maybe go along in the skimmer and lend a hand? The Captain seemed okay. A hard face, but when he smiled it changed a lot, made him look a nice guy.

There’s no one in the ship can want to find that submarine the way I do, soliloquized Corrigan. Sure I’ve got a grudge. Yeh, a real bad grudge. I saw the sons of bitches killing my buddies, didn’t I? Gunning them down like they were animals.

That adds up to one helluva good reason for wanting to get stuck into the bastards. I’ll put it to the Captain that way. Maybe he’ll understand. Give me the okay to go along. I need to get into that act real bad.

When the sun had gone and the twilight glow in the western sky had given way to night, the motorboat returned to Restless. The Gunnery Officer who’d taken it away put in the negative report that had become all too customary.

Barratt had shrugged, concealed his disappointment. ‘We’ll tackle the southern section tomorrow,’ he said. ‘It looks promising on the chart. More islands and broken coastline than we’ve had today. Now that we’ve got into the routine it should…’

The shrill voice of the starboard lookout broke into the sentence. ‘Skimmer approaching, sir. Ahead to starboard.’

It couldn’t be seen in the gathering gloom, but the high-pitched whine of its engine grew steadily louder. Moving through the water at slow speed Restless showed no lights until the Chief Bosun’s Mate directed the beam of his torch on to the sea. The skimmer came out of the darkness, manoeuvred alongside and was hoisted on board. Morrow ran up to the bridge, found the Captain on the compass platform. ‘Sorry, sir. No joy,’ he said.

‘There’s a lot to be done yet.’ Barratt spoke quietly, didn’t lower his binoculars. ‘We’re only half way.’

Morrow thought the Captain sounded despondent, almost as if he didn’t really mean what he was saying.

Barratt decided that Restless should stand out to sea that night. With revolutions for fifteen knots and radar and asdic operating, the destroyer settled down on a fifteen mile patrol line, three miles to seaward of the islands of Tambuzi and Metundo, the light on the former in sight most of the time. Some time after eight o’clock, satisfied that the ship was on station, he handed over the bridge to Geoffrey Lawson.

After a modest meal in his sea-cabin he made his first attempt at sleep in the twenty-four hours since Restless had picked up Fort Nebraska's signal. To Barratt it seemed a good deal longer. Exhausted and depressed he lay on the settee, turning constantly, the pillow moist with sweat, the humid heat too much for the fan which whirred above his head. Sleep just wouldn’t come. Too many thoughts in his head. Through it kept passing pictures of all that had happened during those twenty-four hours. Inevitably, they were accompanied by questions and uncertainties. Was he carrying out the search in the most efficient manner? Was there anything more he could and should be doing? Closer co-operation with the Catalinas? Why? In what way? They were searching as thoroughly as they could. So was Restless. The only sort of co-operation possible was the exchange of more signals. With what object? There was nothing to say. To have aircraft circling and flashing messages morning and evening was a sure way of making a nonsense of the search.

Captain (D)’s signal? Surely to God the operations room couldn’t imagine there’d been enough time to complete the search. They’ve got bloody great charts, he told himself, the Catalinas will have reported where we were AM and PM. So they know the approximate rate of our search. Why call it off less than half way through? Can’t they see from the chart that the Jap is just as likely to have looked for a hide-out to the south of Fort FTs sinking position as to the north?

Tired though he was he could formulate only one response to these conjectures and rhetorical questions: Restless's search would continue. Only if the southern section yielded nothing by the end of the following day would he set course for Mombasa. To call a halt now was as unthinkable as it was indefensible. A dialogue with Caroline took shape in his mind.

‘But why did you give up half way?’ she was saying.

‘Because of the signal. Captain (D) ordered me to return.’

With a small frown, a lifting of the eyebrows, she said, ‘But surely you didn’t have to answer. W/T silence and all that. You could have gone on, couldn’t you?’

‘And disobeyed orders?’

‘Why not? Nelson did. He said he couldn’t see the signal. You could say you hadn’t received it.’

‘So I let you down?’

‘That’s for your conscience to decide. I don’t know. I’m dead.’

And so the interminable mental wrangle had gone on, and her Why not? Nelson did, kept repeating itself until, at long last, he fell asleep.

But for a gentle roll, an occasional creak in the superstructure and the distant murmur of machinery, there was little indication in the wardroom that Restless was at sea. The few officers there were reading, talking or idling in other ways. One of them, the Engineer Officer, sat on a settee, hands clasped behind his head, legs stretched out in front of him. He made a second attempt to get the Doctor’s attention. ‘And what would be the important book that so engrosses the Doctor?’ he asked, the sing-song Welsh accent exaggerated for the occasion.

The Doctor looked up, frowned. ‘It’s a scholarly work by a German gentleman,’ he said. ‘You would not have read him.’

‘Ah. And which one might that be?’ The Welshman covered a yawn with a large hand. ‘Thomas Mann maybe, or Mr Einstein?’

‘No. From its title you might conclude that I have here a treatise on constipation. But it is not so, though some might describe the work as related to that complaint.’

‘Mein Kampf,’ came from a fair man with a square face who was playing chess with a midshipman. The square face belonged to Andrew Weeks, a Lieutenant RNVR who had graduated from Oxford not long before the War began.

The Doctor turned to look at him. ‘Very good, Andy. Nothing like a classical education. And now, for a hundred dollars, my next question. Who was the author?’

Midshipman Galpin’s hand went up. ‘Adolf Hitler, sir.’

‘You weren’t asked, precocious youth.’ The Doctor frowned, went back to his book.

The Torpedo Officer, John Taylor, a small thin man with black crinkly hair and dark eyes, threw a last dart at the board before slumping into an armchair next to the sprawling figure of Sandy Hamilton, who opened an eye to see who the newcomer was.

Taylor said, ‘Sorry if I’ve disturbed you, Number One.’

‘Not at all. It’s a pleasure. One always enjoys being disturbed, particularly when dreaming.’ The First Lieutenant shifted his legs and rearranged himself in the chair.

‘Camilla was it?’ suggested Taylor.

‘Officers and gentlemen don’t discuss ladies in the wardroom.’

‘Sorry, Number One. I must apologize for the lapse.’ The Torpedo Officer’s sigh was exaggerated. ‘She’s very beautiful.’

‘Pipe down, little man. That’s enough.’

Taylor smiled. ‘Now that you’re awake. May I ask you a question?’

‘Yes. If it’s not about politics, religion or women.’

Taylor leant towards the First Lieutenant, lowered his voice. ‘A bit odd that the Old Man has ignored Captain (D)’s signal, isn’t it?’

‘What d’you mean?’ There was a cautionary note in the First Lieutenant’s reply.

‘You know what I mean. Sunset was two hours ago. We haven’t the slightest clue where the ruddy submarine is. And yet here we are farting up and down a patrol line when we should be legging it for Mombasa.’

The First Lieutenant, his eyes on the chess players, didn’t reply. Slowly, and with some effort, he levered himself out of the armchair, yawned and stretched.

Taylor said, ‘You haven’t answered my question, Number One.’

The First Lieutenant stared at him. ‘I’m not in the business of criticizing the Captain’s decisions,’ he said. ‘Nor should you be.’

He looked round the wardroom, tapped his mouth to hide another yawn. ‘I think I’ll turn in,’ he announced to no one in particular as he went to the door. He, too, wondered what the Captain was up to.

It was not long before the voice-pipe on the bulkhead above Barratt’s pillow whistled him awake. It was the officer-of-the-watch. ‘Captain — bridge. Radar contact — small target, dead ahead, bearing steady, range eight miles, closing slowly.’

‘Good. I’ll be up in a second.’ Barratt rolled off the settee, blinked at the single red light allowed in his sea-cabin, looked at the time, course and speed indicators on the bulkhead and set off for the bridge. Small target was probably a coaster, but it could equally be a surfaced submarine. Dead ahead, bearing steady and closing slowly meant it was on the same course as the destroyer which was overtaking.

It was some time before the range had closed sufficiently for the A/S cabinet to classify the target as ‘small ship, single screw, reciprocating engine’. So it wasn’t a submarine.

Nor were several other reports that brought Barratt to the bridge that night.