Yashimoto's Last Dive

Twenty-one

When the sentries were out of sight Katu left Morrow with a final, ‘You wait here, Bwana. I come back soon.’

The African was moving stealthily forward when the clouds closed over the moon and its pale light went as if at the touch of some heavenly switch.

Thank the Lord for that, breathed Morrow, peering into the black wall of night and seeing nothing. The sentries had been walking close to the water’s edge, about fifty yards in front of the huts, the entrances to which must have been on the beach side for nothing but blank walls had faced him before the moon went.

Katu would be all right, he decided. Even if the moon came again and he was seen, it would not matter. It was normal practice for Africans to leave their huts during the night to relieve themselves; tribal culture did not embrace modern conveniences.

The Sub-Lieutenant leant against the tree trunk, alert, watching the darkness, his senses finely tuned. Before he’d seen the armed men on the beach he’d regarded Operation Maji as an exciting adventure. The sort of thing he’d read about as a boy. But it was more than that now, more complex, more worrying. He was, though he would not have admitted it, fearful of what might happen: that he might be the target for those rifles? Bizarre pictures of the shattered corpses of the Fort Nebraska survivors passed through his mind, and he recalled Brad Corrigan’s description of the horrors of that night. From where he stood all that could be heard was the water lapping the beach. Was the Japanese submarine somewhere in the creek? The men with the rifles made sense if it was. They’d be Jap sentries. Some of the men who’d massacred the survivors. No mercy could be expected from such people. Waiting behind the trunk of the palm tree he worried increasingly about what might happen, about things that could go wrong. In spite of the hot night he shivered, felt for the revolver at his hip. Its touch was only partly reassuring.

Was this Japanese submarine they were hunting the one which had attacked the southbound convoy? The one Restless had attacked, thought then to be a German U-boat? He recalled the excitement of the occasion, his first real taste of action. Difficult to believe that it had happened less than a week ago.

There hadn’t been much to see. Too dark for that. But a merchant ship near them had been torpedoed, they’d heard the explosion, and Restless had made an asdic contact soon afterwards. Sean O’Brien, the ASCO, had classified it as submarine, and Barratt, deciding on a counter-attack, had taken Restless in at high speed, dropping a pattern of depth-charges set shallow. The usual but always spectacular fountains of foaming water had leapt high in the air as explosion after explosion rumbled and thudded, the surface of the sea trembling, convulsed by the forces beneath it, the destroyer shaking to the pounding of her own charges. What followed had been unusual and immensely satisfying. The bows and then the top of the conning-tower of a submarine had shown briefly in the long white beam of Restless's searchlight. Morrow had been on the bridge, seen it happen, heard Barratt’s shouted, Tort twenty,’ the destroyer heeling over, swinging hard to starboard, and the First Lieutenant’s urgent phone warning to Geoffrey Lawson in the gunnery control-tower, Tort quarter — two hundred yards — submarine surfacing.’

But all signs of the submarine had gone within seconds of its breaking surface. The convoy had gone on, leaving Restless to try to regain asdic contact. Whether the submarine had broken surface because of a loss of trim, or whether the depth-charges had sunk it, they were never to know. All attempts to regain contact in waters of great depth failed. An hour later they’d abandoned the search.

A sudden noise from somewhere behind him caused Morrow to stiffen against the trunk of the palm tree. Revolver in hand he edged himself slowly round it, his eyes searching the darkness. The noise came again, louder this time and unmistakably from the direction of the spring. He relaxed. It was the croaking of a bull-frog. Grinning at his jumpiness, he forgot his fears, reflecting instead on his good fortune in having been chosen for the shore party. That more reassuring thought was soon banished by a low whistle from the darkness ahead — a short and a long. It was repeated and he knew it must be Katu, so he whistled a long and a short in response; the agreed challenge and reply for Operation Maji. He could neither see nor hear the African approaching, but less than a minute later Katu was at his side. He was not alone.

This man’, he whispered, indicating the dark shape near him, ‘will come with us, Bwana. I will tell you later of him. He is Aba Said.’

Thanks to the newcomer who led, the journey up the ravine and over the hilltop to the casuarina trees was safely accomplished in total darkness and good time. A tall, lithe young man, Aba Said seemed to glide rather than walk over the rough terrain.

‘He know every track, every bush, every stone on Maji. He live in this place all his life,’ Katu explained to Morrow. That it was so, was soon evident. The route the young African chose to reach the casuarinas was a good deal easier than the one they’d taken for the journey down to the huts.

They waited at the casuarinas for some time before a theatrical hiss from Katu was followed by his, ‘They come, Bwana.’ Minutes later Morrow, every nerve strained, heard the faint scuff of feet — the Captain’s, he decided with a private smile — followed by the whistled code to which he at once replied.

It was a weird meeting, the only means of recognition familiar voices which identified shapes in the dark. Morrow began to explain who Aba Said was when the Captain interrupted. Tell me about him later. No time now. Seen any sentries? Men with rifles?’

‘Yes, sir, on the beach in front of the huts. Two of them.’

‘Did they see you?’ The Captain threw the question at him like a missile.

‘Definitely not, sir. I stayed in the trees.’

‘And Katu?’

‘He went to the hut of his friend, Aba Said’s father. He says he could not have been seen.’

Barratt said, ‘Thank God for that.’ In what seemed an afterthought he added, ‘Did he find out who the armed men were? What it’s all about?’

So the Captain didn’t know. Morrow experienced an almost uncontrollable desire to laugh, to relieve the tension. This was his moment and he was going to enjoy it. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said quietly. ‘They are Japanese. From the submarine in the creek.’

‘My God, I don’t believe it.’ The pitch of Barratt’s voice rose. ‘McLean and I have searched every inch of that damned creek with binoculars. What’s more in bright moonlight. Where is it? Submerged?’

Morrow told him.

The darkness of a cloud-covered sky persisted, but with Aba Said leading them down a winding track through the undergrowth the journey to the beach presented few difficulties other than that of walking silently.

They couldn’t see the skimmer when they reached the catamaran, but Corrigan’s reply to the coded whistle travelled softly across the water, and soon they heard the faint splash of paddles approaching the beach. The skimmer grounded and Corrigan’s ‘Hi’ sounded in the darkness. Barratt quickly briefed the American, told him the submarine was there, adding, ‘We’ve crew for you. An African, Aba Said. He’s a Maji fisherman. Brought up with paddles. Follow us out when we leave the beach. When we give you the signal, close us.’

The catamaran was launched, the shore party climbed in and paddled away from the beach in silence. It was not until they’d covered the first mile of the journey that the Captain said, ‘Now, Morrow. Let’s have your story.’

The Sub-Lieutenant began by explaining Aba Said’s presence. ‘Katu recruited him to take his place when he returns to the fishing grounds this morning. He says that Said knows every inch of the island, all the tracks to the beaches, where the sentries are, the Japs’ daily routine, etcetera. I think he’ll be very useful.’

‘He certainly will.’ Barratt’s voice was hoarse with su-pressed excitement. ‘Now give us the gen about the submarine.’

To the accompaniment of splashing paddles and creaks and groans from the mast and outrigger, Morrow repeated what Katu had told him: the submarine’s arrival at the creek three nights before; the camouflaging before dawn; the crew’s daily routine; the shooting of the Maji fisherman; the Japanese ban on fishing, and the consequent shortage of food; the execution of the sentry who’d drunk calao with the villagers; the sounds of mechanical work on the submarine night and day; the spiral of smoke rising from the trees each day, and the distant glow of a fire at night.

A question and answer session developed, Barratt showing particular interest in precisely where the submarine was berthed, how she was lying in relation to the narrows, the direction in which her bows faced? Was any part of the boat visible in daylight? Where were the sentries posted? Were they checked on day and night and, if so, at what times?

In the course of an almost simultaneous translation Morrow tossed the questions and answers to and fro, clearly enjoying his role until Barratt cut him short. ‘That’s a very useful report. Now tell Katu that I think he’s done a marvellous job. I’m deeply grateful. Tell Aba Said that he will be well rewarded for his services. Go to some trouble to reassure him by saying that his people will not have the Japs around their necks much longer. Tell him I intend to see to that.’

Morrow said, ‘I was about to mention something important, sir. Something Katu told me he’d heard from Aba Said’s father. When the Japanese officer came to show them the head of the sentry he said that if the Africans behaved themselves they’d soon be fishing at sea again because the submarine would be leaving before long.’

Barratt’s euphoria, induced an hour earlier by Morrow’s calm announcement that the submarine was in the creek, drained away as if sluice-gates had opened. In an agony of uncertainty he wondered if he’d at last found the submarine only to lose it? Was this the day of the Japanese officer’s before long? With a deep sense of urgency and foreboding he knew that he must get back to Restless as soon as possible. Morrow was saying something. Barratt wasn’t sure what it was because he wasn’t listening, he was too upset. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t get that. What did you say?’

‘That Katu was no fool, sir.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘He told Aba Said’s father that we would want to know when the submarine was leaving. The old man said he’d light a fire near the casuarinas to warn us when they saw it was getting ready to go.’

Barratt laughed with relief. ‘My God, what a man. He certainly isn’t a fool. One thing though. How will they decide when it’s getting ready to leave?’

‘The Japs will have to shift all that camouflage, sir. Said’s father told Katu it would mean a lot of work.’

‘When you settle up, see to it that Katu, and Said’s dad, get an extra five pounds of tobacco. They’ve done a great job.’

Morrow grinned in the darkness. ‘I thought you’d be pleased, sir.’

‘That’s an understatement. Now let’s get cracking. Double quick.’ On his orders paddling ceased, the skimmer was cast off and the outboard lowered into the water. The two small craft gathered speed as they headed for the rendezvous, bumping and spraying, their outboard engines screeching in high-pitched harmony.

Restless was sighted at about the time the first pale light of dawn appeared in the eastern sky. Not long afterwards the skimmer and catamaran were alongside. Their occupants clambered on board, tired and bedraggled but exultant, their blackened faces streaked with sweat. The catamaran and skimmer were hoisted, Barratt went to the bridge, engine-room telegraphs rang, the note of the turbines rose, and the destroyer began once again to cut through the warm waters of the Mozambique Channel.