Yashimoto's Last Dive

Twenty

That night Yashimoto ordered the Navigating Officer to complete his chart of the island with lines of soundings in the creek and through the narrows. When Sato had gone, he wrote up his report on the trial and punishment of AB Awa.

The shore parties returned on board an hour after midnight bringing with them a casualty: a seaman had gashed his thigh with a panga. Yashimoto suspected a self-inflicted wound; a ploy to escape the gruelling work of cutting timber in a tropical jungle on a sultry night. But the wound was so severe, and the men who had witnessed the incident so certain that it was caused by a branch which had deflected the panga blade, that he accepted reluctantly that it was an accident. He administered an injection of morphine before sterilizing the wound with a red hot knife blade, whereafter he dressed and bound it.

Tired by a long and taxing day — it had included Awa’s execution — Yashimoto climbed on to his bunk and lay there with the reassuring thought that for the first time since the sinking of Fort Nebraska he could go to sleep knowing that for I-357 and her crew the outlook was good. Satugawa’s statement that flooding tests should be possible by sunset on the 24th was the prime reason for Yashimoto’s peace of mind. Another was the behaviour of the Catalinas; on neither the morning nor afternoon flights had they shown any particular interest in Creek Island. A final comforting thought was the certainty that sentries would now be at their most vigilant. Within forty-eight hours I-357 should be at sea again, bound for Mombasa to arrive in time for the attack on the British carrier. Once clear of Creek Island he would acknowledge

FOS’s signal, report I-357’s position and confirm that she would be on station in time.

After the attack he would set course for base. The thought of Penang conjured up attractive images, prominent among them the lovely face and shapely body of Masna. With that stimulating fantasy he fell into a sound sleep. It was not to end until he was called at seven-thirty in the morning in accordance with the instruction in his Night Order Book.

Katu led the slow, upward trudge across the slope of the hill with the others close on his heels. Thick bushes, rocks, loose stones and the steep incline made the going slow and the climbers sweat profusely. To these discomforts were added the attentions of countless insects which buzzed and protested as progress was made through the undergrowth. The shore party were about half way to the summit when the moon came through the clouds and the pace was quickened. Katu, never having approached the village except by way of the creek had, until then, been moving tentatively, feeling his way in the darkness, stopping at times to find a way round when thickets halted progress.

He and Morrow, brought up in the African bush, were adept at silent movement; McLean, too, excelled in this, though he’d learnt the art in a different environment. Barratt was the amateur of the party, and each time he trod on a dry twig or displaced a loose stone he cursed under his breath. The slow, upward journey across the slope had taken almost half an hour when they reached a clearing from which could be seen the moonlit tops of trees on the far side of the hill. Katu stopped, waited for Morrow to catch up. ‘We will come to the village by following the ravine,’ he explained. ‘That way we will not be seen because the trees are thick behind the huts.’ He pointed ahead to a clump of tall casuarinas. ‘The top of the ravine is behind those trees. Not far now.’

Saying, ‘We must stop here, Katu. I will tell Bwana M’kubwa of this.’ Morrow repeated to Barratt what the African had said.

Barratt wiped the sweat from beneath his eyes with moist fingers. ‘Right. We’ll separate now. You go ahead with Katu to the huts. Don’t show yourself there unless he gives you the okay. When he’s learnt what he can, rejoin us at the casuarinas not later than 0400. We’re due back on the beach by 0430. That gives you an hour and a half. Should be enough.’

Morrow said it was, adding, ‘If you’re not here when we get back, sir, do we wait for you?’ The Captain’s sweat-streaked, blackened face struck the Sub-Lieutenant as particularly villainous in the moonlight.

‘Not long after 0400. Say five minutes. Same drill for us. If you’re not here by then we’ll carry on down to the beach.’

Morrow spoke to Katu. The two men moved away through the undergrowth and were soon lost to sight.

Though they had reached the top of the hill, Barratt and McLean found that the thickly wooded summit shut out any view of the creek. According to Katu it lay directly below them. Eager for a sight of it the two men moved through the trees in a direction away from the ravine. Before long they reached a clearing where an outcrop of rock thrust upwards to almost the height of the trees. They climbed it and for the first time saw the creek; a long stretch of water, silver in the moonlight, its mouth on the north-western side of the island leading to narrows into which poked a rocky bluff. Beyond the bluff the narrows ended and the creek opened out into an oval basin. From their vantage point they saw that Maji was shaped like a horseshoe, its open end the entrance to the creek. The slopes of the hills enfolding it were densely wooded and on the eastern side a beach led to a clearing where native huts were fringed by palm trees. The dark hulls of catamarans were drawn up on the northern end of the beach.

To Barratt the anti-climax was like a kick in the stomach; nowhere in the moonlit scene was there a submarine. The entire creek, its most distant point little more than a thousand yards from them, lay open to inspection and clearly it had no exciting secrets to hide. If the submarine had been there it had gone. If it had been there? ‘Nothing here,’ he said to McLean in a subdued voice. ‘So much for the big whale. All that bloody effort for nothing.’

Sensing the Captain’s thoughts the signalman said, ‘Ah, weel, sir. It was worth the try. It’s a bonny creek but there’s nary a place for a submarine to hide. Too easy for Catalinas to have seen it.’

Barratt was pondering this truth when the sound of an outboard engine reached them. Moments later its source was apparent. A catamaran with mast and outrigger, but no sail, was travelling at a fair pace down the narrows, its outboard engine throwing up a plume of foam, white in the moonlight.

Surprised and puzzled, they watched it. During the last forty-eight hours they’d seen many catamarans in and around the islands, but never one with an outboard engine. It was heading for the bank on the western side of the creek, some distance north of the bluff. The note of the engine dropped and it ran its bows against the fringe of mangroves lining the shore. Two dark shapes came from the shadows and stood on the bank facing the catamaran. A minute or so later it had backed away, turned and headed down the narrows. It had not gone far when the performance was repeated, this time at the foot of the bluff where a single dark shape left the treeline and moved towards the water. When close to the catamaran the dark shape knelt, evidently talking to its occupants though nothing could be heard at that distance. Once again the catamaran backed out. This time it made for the shore on the opposite side of the creek. Fascinated, they watched the frail little craft’s progress. The first stop on the eastern side was in front of the huts where its bows were run up on to the beach. Two shadowy figures went down to it. It was apparent that they were talking to the men in the catamaran. Barratt and McLean, both watching through binoculars, muttered a simultaneous ‘See that?’

For Barratt, what they had seen was like a shot of adrenalin. The distant figures which had gone down to the beach had rifles slung over their shoulders.

In a low voice McLean said, ‘There’s something funny going on there, sir.’

‘There certainly is.’ Barratt’s matter-of-fact tone concealed excitement. ‘But just what, it’s difficult to make out. Let’s hope Morrow and Katu have the answer.’

‘They’ll surely have heard the outboard,’ said McLean. The two men kept watch as the catamaran continued its journey. Having pulled out from the beach, it motored a short distance down it until, at the southern end, it again stopped; a man came to the water’s edge. He, too, was carrying a rifle.

Once more what looked like a brief discussion took place. The catamaran’s outboard engine burst noisily into life and it made its way across the creek to the opposite side. There it was lost to Barratt’s eyes in the shadows cast by the trees lining the bank.

‘See anything?’ he asked the signalman.

Without lowering his binoculars McLean replied, ‘Aye, sir. It’s gone alongside the bank. There’s two other catamarans there. Moored next to each other.’

Barratt strained at the binocular eyepieces. He wasn’t sure but thought he might have seen the dim outline of catamarans. ‘I can’t really make out anything,’ he admitted. ‘Keep watching. Let me know what’s happening.’

Soon afterwards McLean said, ‘One man has already stepped on shore. Now — another’s beginning to follow. The third man’s standing in the sternsheets.’

Barratt, tense, waiting for more, could hear nothing but McLean’s deep breathing.

‘Aye, sir. He’s on shore now,’ came from the signalman at last. ‘They’re moving into the trees. Three of them, walking in single file.’ Shortly afterwards he added, ‘I see the faint glow of a fire. It’s reflected in the tops of trees somewhere up the slope from where they landed.’

‘A camp fire, d’you think?’

‘Could be that, sir.’

Barratt put a hand to his forehead. ‘Just let me think about this for a moment, McLean.’ He muttered something to himself, then said, ‘I can’t make it out… unless. The sentence was left unfinished.

‘And what is that, sir?’ prodded McLean.

‘Unless they were sentries. The other people — the men in the catamaran — could be checking to see that all is well. But the question remains, who are they? Surely African fishermen don’t post armed sentries? Katu may have the answer when he gets back. The point is, if the lot we’ve been watching aren’t fishermen who the hell are they? Portuguese officials? Police? Fishery control? Recruiting agents for the mines and plantations? Something like that?’ Barratt answered the rhetorical questions. ‘Highly improbable, I think. So we’re left with the sixty-four dollar question. Who the devil are those people?’

McLean was thoughtful. ‘Maybe survivors, sir,’ he said.

‘Survivors? What sort of survivors, McLean?’

‘Japanese, sir. Perhaps that submarine — the big whale — didn’t make it into here. Maybe the crew did. In inflatables. Could be they’ve a camp in the trees.’

‘I wonder if you’re right, McLean.’ Barratt paused. ‘You may well be. They’d have seen the Catalinas. If they are Japanese they’ll be afraid they may be pulled in by the Portuguese.’ He relapsed into silence. Quite suddenly, in a voice that had risen, he said, ‘Know what? Katu’s yodelling chum, the one fishing offshore tonight. Remember, he couldn’t understand why he’d not seen any Maji fishermen recently.’ Barratt dropped his voice again. ‘That would fit with Japanese sentries wouldn’t it?’

‘Aye. I dare say.’ McLean was cautious. ‘For preventing men from the village going out to fish, you mean?’

‘Yes. Just that.’ Barratt looked at his watch. ‘We’ve an hour left. I suggest we stay here until it’s time to get back to the casuarinas. Maybe we’ll see something else going on in the creek.’

‘Aye, and that’s a good idea, sir. We’ll nae be finding a better place for watching.’

They were silent for some time, each busy with his own thoughts until Barratt said, ‘I hope to God that Morrow and Katu haven’t run into those sentries.’

‘Katu will be going in alone will he not? From the direction of the spring. That’s at the back. At the foot of the ravine. The sentries seem to be stationed on the beach side of the huts. He should be okay. A black man and all. Just one of the African fishermen.’

‘Fair enough for Katu, but Morrow is white. He can’t pass himself off as one of them.’

‘He’ll be fine, sir. He’s looking black enough and he speaks the lingo.’

McLean’s confidence was infectious. Barratt changed the subject. ‘Those catamarans on the west bank — apart from the one we saw moving around — I suppose they’re for the use of the outfit in the woods, whoever they are?’

‘Aye. That could be it,’ agreed McLean.

Making themselves as comfortable as they could on their rocky perch, they settled down to watch. But the night had other plans; clouds crept up on the moon and the watchers were once more in total darkness.

They’d gone someway down the ravine when Katu stopped, grabbed Morrow by the arm. ‘Listen,’ he said urgently. Morrow heard the sound of the two-stroke engine, a distant high-pitched snarl. It came from the general direction of the creek, grew slowly louder, then stopped.

‘That’s an outboard engine,’ he said. He was explaining what that was when Katu interrupted. ‘I know, Bwana. I have already seen such things in Mocimboa da Praia.’ Katu’s tone implied concern that he should be thought so ignorant. ‘They push a boat through the water,’ he added by way of putting the matter beyond doubt.

From where they were in the wooden ravine it was not possible to see into the creek, so they continued their slow but silent descent towards the spring. Katu stopped at frequent intervals to listen. By the time they reached the foot of the ravine the sound of the outboard had started and stopped several times; on each occasion it appeared to be increasing in volume.

While still in the trees which bordered a small clearing Katu stopped suddenly and pointed ahead. The spring,’ he whispered. In the moonlight Morrow saw a rough stone canopy in the centre of the clearing. Listening intently, he could hear the murmuring bubble of the spring which the canopy shielded from the sun. Katu came close, spoke into the Sub-Lieutenant’s ear. ‘Not far now, Bwana.’

Keeping to the trees, they moved round the clearing with Katu still in the lead. They had not gone far when he stopped, held a finger to his mouth, moved behind the trunk of a tree and gestured to Morrow to do the same. They had almost reached the edge of a big clearing in which could be seen the tall trunks and bunched heads of coconut palms. Beyond them a semi-circle of huts stood above a white stretch of beach which reached down to the edge of the creek, its water margin silvered by moonlight. For Morrow an otherwise captivating scene was jarred suddenly by the distant silhouette of two men walking towards each other from opposite sides of the beach. It was not possible to catch anything more than glimpses of them through the gaps between the huts and the palm trees, but those glimpses were enough to imprint on his mind an indelible image: the men carried rifles over their shoulders. When they met they conferred briefly before turning to march back in the directions whence they had come. Who they were he had no idea. What they were was pretty obvious.