Yashimoto's Last Dive

Nineteen

The atmosphere in the operations room in Kilindini was uncomfortable, less because the punkah was no match for the humid heat of equatorial night than for the failure of Restless to acknowledge the recall signal. Perspiring freely, elbows on the desk, Captain (D) mopped his face with a moist handkerchief. ‘I simply cannot understand Barratt’s failure to acknowledge,’ he wheezed.

‘Perhaps his transmitter’s gone on the blink,’ suggested Hutchison.

Captain (D) directed a frosty look at the Flight Lieutenant. ‘Destroyers have several transmitters, generators and backup systems. The only time they can’t transmit is when they’ve sunk.’

The SOO tugged at an earlobe, looked gloomily down the length of his unusually long nose. ‘Remarkably like insubordination, I’d say. Been drinking perhaps. Had-dingham said Barratt’s scrapes were usually associated with that sort of thing.’

‘May I say something, sir?’ The question came from the RNVR Lieutenant at the operations table.

Captain (D), checking the file copy of the unanswered signal for possible ambiguity looked up in surprise. ‘Yes, Jakes. Of course. What?’

‘Well, sir, it’s a little awkward but I…’ he hesitated. ‘I wondered if Lieutenant Commander Barratt might not be the victim of a compulsive obsession.’

Captain (D) frowned. ‘What on earth are you talking about, Jakes?’

‘It’s a psychiatric disorder, sir. Can be brought on by shock though it’s normally deep-seated and chronic:’

‘Good God, Jakes.’ Captain (D) looked at the Lieutenant in dismay. ‘Don’t tell me you’re one of those.’

‘No, sir. But in the club a few days ago I read an article on the subject in a periodical. Now I wonder if his wife’s death, plus the massacre of Fort Nebraska's crew… if the shock of those could have triggered a compulsive obsession.’ ‘To disregard signals, I presume.’ The SOO gave another imitation of a pelican looking down its beak.

Jakes shook his head. ‘To find and destroy the Japanese submarine.’

‘You may be right, Jakes. But this is an operations room of the Royal Navy not, thank God, a psychiatric ward.’ Captain (D)’s cheeks bulged as if building up a powerful head of steam. ‘Restless has failed to acknowledge her recall, dammit,’ he exploded. ‘She’s required here in advance of the carrier’s arrival. The Chief Staff Officer tells me he will have to report this to the Admiral if we’ve not heard from Barratt by midnight. That is exactly one hour away. For his sake I hope we do hear from him by then.’

It was after Captain (D) and the SOO had left the operations room that Camilla flounced across to Jake’s desk. ‘I heard all that,’ she said with a disapproving twitch of her nose. ‘Makes me angry. Why can’t they give the poor man a chance? He must have a good reason for not replying to their signals. Why not give him the benefit of the doubt?’

‘What doubt?’ Jake’s voice was flat.

‘Oh, you men! Why not assume that he knows what he’s doing? He probably knows where the submarine is. Believes that in a day or so it’ll put to sea. It may be in some small harbour or inlet on the Mozambique coast. In neutral territory, so he’s hanging around waiting for the wretched thing to come out. But he knows it won’t if the Japs know he’s there. Hence wireless silence.’

‘If he knows where it is, why doesn’t he tell us?’

‘I’ve just told you why.’ Camilla’s voice did its best to reflect despair.

‘You’ve heard my theory, Camilla.’

‘Your Reader's Digest quote?’

‘It wasn’t the Reader's Digest as it happens.’

‘Well, whatever it was, I wasn’t impressed. Nor were Captain (D) and SOO. Restless's Number One is Sandy Hamilton. He wouldn’t go along with anything stupid like…’ She frowned, searching for the words. ‘… rank insubordination or whatever it was Old Gloomy called it. Sandy is a well-balanced, level-headed, ambitious, young naval officer.’

Jakes nodded, a half smile about his lips. ‘And, rumour has it, a certain lovely lady’s boy friend.’

‘He’s nothing of the sort,’ she flashed. ‘Simply a nice man who happens to be a good friend.’

Jakes beamed good-naturedly. ‘Who was seen with a certain young lady week-ending down the coast at the Tuna Inn?’

‘You horror. I don’t know why I bother to speak to you.’ Tossing her head with just the right touch of outraged dignity, she went back to her desk.

A light breeze from the shore ruffled the surface of the sea to help cool what would otherwise have been a humid, breathless night, with stars glittering brilliantly in a break in the southern sky. Against the dark background of the land Restless moved slowly through the water; without lights of any sort she was invisible but for the pools of phosphorescence which tumbled and glowed along her sides as the engines were put astern.

From a wing of the bridge the Captain looked down to where men had gathered on deck abreast of the motorboat which hung from turned-out davits. ‘Standby to lower,’ he called, before going back to the compass platform. To the dark bulk of a man standing there, he said, ‘We’re three miles off Maji Island now, Number One. Pick us up here at 0500, unless we send up a flare before then.’ With a dry laugh he added, ‘Which I sincerely hope we won’t.’ He searched the darkness round the ship with binoculars. ‘Right. She’s all yours. Take care.’

‘Aye, aye, sir. I will.’ The First Lieutenant followed Barratt to the top of the bridge ladder. ‘Good luck, sir. We’ll keep our fingers crossed.’

‘Thank you, Number One.’ The Captain tugged at the webbing belt which held a holstered revolver. ‘This Wild West gear is bloody uncomfortable,’ he complained as he started down the ladder. ‘Almost as bad as having to look like a ruddy boot-black.’

The strangely assorted tow of small craft moved in towards Maji Island, which was not yet visible in the darkness. Coxed by Leading Seaman Hind the motorboat led the way with the catamaran and skimmer on a short tow astern. Corrigan was in the skimmer steering with a paddle, the outboard engine still tipped clear of the water. The landing party’s approach was silent but for the low rumble of the motorboat’s engine and the gentle swish and slap of the sea against the hull. No one spoke but for whispered exchanges between Morrow and Katu.

Piloted by the African, the trio of small craft headed in towards the southern side of the island. Katu had explained that the coastline was rocky but for three small beaches; the one for which they were heading — already named Recce Beach by the Captain — another in the north, and a third on the western side of the island.

They had gone some distance when Katu pointed ahead. He made a whispered report to Morrow. ‘It’s the island, Bwana.’

The Sub-Lieutenant spoke to Barratt, told him what Katu had said, adding, ‘I can see it now. He says we must steer more to port.’

Barratt checked with binoculars, picked up the dark blob on the port bow and ordered the change of course. Soon afterwards Katu spoke again. Morrow did an almost simultaneous translation. ‘He says we’re not far off now, sir.’

‘Right. Stop engines, Hind. We’ll haul the tow alongside and make the transfers.’

Katu was first into the catamaran; Morrow went next, then Barratt followed by Angus McLean. Darkness concealed a weird-looking crew, their faces and other exposed flesh blackened, their dark clothing a strange assortment of blue shorts, cut down bell-bottoms, rugger jerseys and other non-uniform items. All were bareheaded and the two blonds, Corrigan and Morrow, had blackened their hair. Tucked away somewhere or hung about them were revolvers, fighting knives, torches, binoculars, Very pistols and flares.

The outrigger kept the catamaran on an even keel in spite of the uncertain movements of a crew who’d never manned one before, though they’d had a dummy run earlier that night, climbing in and out of the primitive craft stowed on Restless's upper deck. Long and narrow, scooped from a single log, the hull required its four occupants to sit in line: Katu in the stern, ahead of him the others in the order in which they’d boarded. All had paddles. Before leaving the motorboat Barratt had a last word with Corrigan, who was alone in the skimmer. ‘Remember the drill. Don’t use the outboard. Paddle in behind us. Remain close. It’s dark and won’t change unless the moon gets through the clouds. When we’ve beached the catamaran you stay afloat nearby. Within sight of the catamaran if possible. We’ll aim to be back on the beach by 0430. Sunrise is at 0525. You okay on the pre-arranged signals or do you want to go through them again?’

‘I guess I’m okay, Captain,’ said the American.

‘Remember, a red Very light means trouble. And that means a high-speed getaway. I hope we won’t need that. Paddling’s a lot quieter. And better for the body.’ Barratt cleared his throat. ‘Even if it is a bit of a bind.’

‘Okay, Captain. It’s a deal.’ The note of confidence in the American’s voice reminded Barratt that for both of them this was more than an exciting, perhaps daunting adventure. They had personal scores to settle. Behind all they were doing lay a primitive but fundamental urge. The desire for revenge.

Cloud banks shut out the last of the stars as the catamaran moved over the sea in a silence broken by the splash of paddles and the occasional murmur of voices. Long before the others, Angus McLean sighted Recce Beach, a pale smudge at the base of the black hump ahead. Soon after its sighting, a plaintive cry came to them across the water. Barratt was saying, ‘For God’s sake. What’s that…’ when Katu cupped his hands and answered with an equally weird cry.

‘For Christ’s sake stop him, Morrow,’ snapped Barratt. ‘This isn’t the Swiss Alps.’

Having spoken to the African, Morrow said, ‘It’s a catamaran fisherman, sir. Katu says the man heard our paddles and is asking who it is and where from. In reply Katu gave his name and village. They do this exchange of greetings on the fishing grounds.’

With binoculars trained on where the sound had come from, Barratt said, ‘I don’t see anything there.’ His words were almost overtaken by McLean’s. ‘About thirty degrees to starboard, sir. A hundred yards or so, I reckon there’s something on the water.’

Having said, ‘You’re a bloody marvel, McLean,’ Barratt ordered, ‘Stop paddling. Give Corrigan two blue flashes. We’ll transfer to the skimmer. Morrow — tell Katu that once we’ve left the catamaran he must take it across to his chum and stop the yodelling. The other man may be a Maji fisherman. What he tells Katu might save us a lot of trouble. The important thing is we can’t afford to hang about too long. Tell Katu we’ll wait here until he returns. But he’s got to get back in double quick time. Got that?’

‘Aye, aye, sir. I’ll fix that.’

‘And,’ went on Barratt, ‘tell Katu not to say a word about us, or what we’re after. He’s out fishing on his own. Normal drill. Right?’ As he spoke the skimmer came up from astern. Barratt told Corrigan what had happened, and the shore party transferred to it while Katu, now alone in the catamaran, paddled off in the distance.

Barratt checked the minutes as they ticked by: five, six, seven, eight, nine. At the tenth minute, tense and impatient, he growled. ‘I wish he’d bloody well hurry up. It’s already 0132. We’re ten minutes behind schedule.’

‘Africans observe a polite routine when they meet in the bush,’ explained Morrow. ‘I imagine it’s the same at sea. They ask where you’re from, what tribe, who’s your chief, how many wives have you, how many children, how many are daughters? How are your cattle, your crops, have you had rain, etcetera? It’s really quite a rigmarole. I expect that…’

‘It’s nae so different in the wild parts of the Heelands,’ interrupted McLean. ‘When strangers meet they…’

‘This is no time for lectures on African and Scottish culture,’ interrupted Barratt. ‘We’ve a job to do.’

A few minutes later paddling could be heard. It was soon followed by the catamaran’s arrival alongside. Katu spoke to Morrow at some length, whereafter the Sub-Lieutenant said, ‘All’s well, sir. He says the other guy, Obudo, is not from Maji. He’s from the coast. A fishing village about six miles from here. Katu asked him if he’d seen any strange ships, something like a big whale. But Obudo hadn’t. Nor had he seen any Maji fishermen recently. He told Katu there were usually a number of Maji catamarans on these fishing grounds, but none over the last few days which puzzles him. He thinks it may be an outbreak of malaria in the village. Or something like that.’

‘I see.’ Barratt was silent, deep in thought. After a while he said, ‘I wonder what the devil something like that could be?’ Then he was all action again. ‘Let’s get back into the catamaran. Time’s precious.’

About five minutes after they’d landed the moon came out and for the first time Corrigan saw the catamaran where they’d drawn it up against a rock ledge at the far end of the beach; the only indication of its presence was a mast looking like a bare tree pole, which was precisely what it had been before Katu cut it down for his craft.

Worrying about the moon, Corrigan paddled the skimmer close inshore where it wouldn’t be too visible. When he found a good place at the opposite end of the beach, he put the anchor over the side and the skimmer swung to in the lee of the rocks. He patted the bulging gunwale affectionately, thankful that the skimmer was all black rubber. That thought prompted another and he ran a hand lightly over his forehead. The sticky feel of the blacking was reassuring. The luminous dial of his watch showed 0217. If all went well the others would be back by 0430. Two and a quarter hours to wait. He yawned, wriggled into a more comfortable position on the bottom boards, his back against the skimmer’s side, his eyes on the beach. At regular intervals he put a hand over the side to feel the water. It was a ‘keep-alert’ drill he’d learnt on the beach at Sandport. He reckoned the water was just right. In the middle-seventies, probably. Great to be in the water right now, he decided, knowing it wasn’t possible. On the messdecks they said there was good swimming in Kilindini harbour; shark nets, floats, diving stages, the lot. He’d have to wait for that. They’d be there in a few days.

He wondered what would happen to him in Kilindini? Passage back to the States in a homeward-bound ship, survivor’s leave? Three weeks in Sandport? His watch told him it was November 23. With luck he might make it in time for Christmas at home. Great. The folks would like that. So would he. Three weeks’ leave. Jeez! Go places with Mary Lou. Take her down to New York. Maybe get married if her parents could be persuaded. Not likely, they weren’t keen. Said she was too young at eighteen. That was what they said, but it wasn’t what they meant. They’d told other folks in Sandport that she could do better for herself than marry a lifeguard. How better? Something up market — like a bond salesman?

He could hear the mosquitoes buzzing around but they weren’t worrying him like usual. The blacking, he supposed. He yawned, dipped a hand in the water once more, sprayed his face with it. He wasn’t tired, he’d had a good rest in the afternoon. The Captain had made all the shore party do that.

The trouble now was lack of movement. He shifted his position on the bottom-boards, moved a couple of feet forward. Thinking about the Captain sent him off on another track. Barratt was a nice guy. Quiet but tough and determined, he reckoned. Good man to be with in a bad situation. They’d told him on the messdecks about his wife dying in Changi Gaol. That explained a lot. Why they both felt the same way about the Japs. Branded on his mind, the nightmarish recollection passed before his eyes like a film on a big screen: the dark bulk of the submarine cutting through the water, the cold glare of the searchlight sweeping the sea, settling on the huddled shapes, the tracer bullets racing towards them, kicking up spurts of foam to find the range before smacking into the white faces in the water. Jesus, he thought. Only three nights back. Unbelievable that it had happened only three nights back.

He looked at his watch again — 0232 — wondered how the shore party was getting on. Had they found anything? The big whale? No way of telling. Just have to wait. There wasn’t much action for him sitting there in the skimmer. He’d rather have been with the guys on shore. But at least he was involved now, and the Captain had chosen him for the job when there were plenty of others in the ship who reckoned they were better qualified. So luck was on his side, and it was early days yet. If the submarine was there things were going to happen, and whatever they were he was likely to be in on them.

The moon drifted behind the clouds. He was glad of that. It was good for the men ashore — and good for him. A seabird called, a sudden shrill cry, the first sound he’d heard for a long time other than the constant lap and murmur of the sea.