Yashimoto's Last Dive

Twenty-two

Refreshed by undisturbed sleep Yashimoto washed in the handbasin in his cabin — thanks to the village spring the daily allowance of fresh water had been doubled — pulled on shorts, a vest and canvas shoes, and went to the wardroom where he ate his customary but frugal breakfast, a handful of rice and a cup of black tea. His first stop after the meal was at the chart-table in the control-room where he checked the times of moonrise and set printed on the slate in Sato’s neat hand.

He is certainly a good navigating officer, conceded Yashimoto, conscientious and reliable, yet I don’t really like him. It is not what he says but the way he looks at me, that critical light in his eyes, the mouth slightly twisted. Oh no, it’s not what he says, it’s what he thinks that worries me. These wartime officers, some of them university graduates like Sato, lack the naval outlook. They’ve not been brought up in the samurai tradition, their minds are filled with philosophical abstractions, many of them Western in origin. He shrugged away the unpleasant train of thought; there were more important things to worry about than Sato’s shortcomings. The progress of repairs, the programme for the flooding tests, the disposal of the sick and wounded before departure. The moon would rise at about nine o’clock on the 24th, setting some twelve hours later. If the sky were not clouded it would help him take the submarine out of the creek. But for a line of sandbanks to the north-east of the entrance the water was deep fairly close inshore. Once clear of the headlands he would be able to dive if necessary, though he intended running on the surface until dawn in order to make good time to Mombasa.

It was still less than three days since he’d sunk the Fort Nebraska, yet so many things had happened that he thought of that incident as being much longer ago, more like weeks than days. His thoughts turned to the latest problem; Kagumi had come to his cabin that morning with bad news: a mechanician had collapsed with a high temperature and hallucinations; another case of malaria, bringing the total to three. There was no sick-bay in the submarine, nor any other facilities for nursing the sick. For those reasons he had decided it would not be practical to keep them on board for the long journey back to Penang. Other arrangements had to be made. He had not yet told Kagumi, but that would be attended to later in the day.

Attracted by the sound of men at work in the conning-tower, the source of his major problem, he went to the ladder and looked up. A man stripped to the waist was kneeling astride the hatch crouched over an electric drill, its high whine deafening as it bit into the steel. The Captain called out, ‘Good morning, Taisho.’

The engineroom artificer stopped the drill, looked down. ‘Sir?’

Yashimoto said, ‘Work going well, I trust?’

The frown left the artificer’s sweat-streaked face. ‘Yes, sir. The coaming should be ready to take the lid by sunset.’ ‘And the lid? I see it’s not in place.’

‘At the foundry, sir. There’s more to be done to make it the way it should be. The Chief ERA says it must be back on board for fitting and testing soon after sunset.’

A humming sound came from outside the conning-tower, followed by an abrasive screech. ‘What’s that, Taisho?’ Yashimoto had to shout to be heard.

‘They’re working on the damage at the foot of the conning-tower wall. The angled plates are ready for bolting on. They’re trimming up. Getting rid of rough spots on the surface around the broken metal.’

‘H’m,’ Yashimoto grunted. ‘Still a lot of work to do then?’ ‘Much has already been done, sir. We should be ready for pressure tests by tomorrow evening.’ The ERA’S confident

tone heartened Yashimoto. With men like these, he thought, everything’s possible. He was about to go to the fore-ends to see how the sick and wounded were getting on when the Navigating Officer appeared.

‘I have completed the chart, sir.’ He handed it to the Captain. ‘Petty Officer Nomura and a seaman came with me in the catamaran last night. There was a good deal of moonlight during the first part of the night. Otherwise accurate fixes would have been difficult.’

Yashimoto placed the chart on the table, switched on the light. He spent some time studying Sato’s plan of Creek Island, now neatly studded with soundings.

The Captain looked up at him, smiled approval. ‘Very good. This will be a great help. I see the sandbanks extend further west than we’d thought. That means a ninety degree turn soon after clearing the mouth of the creek.’

‘Yes, sir. There’s not much room to spare, though plenty of water if you keep to the channel I’ve plotted.’

‘What was the tide doing when you took these soundings?’ ‘It was rising, sir. Two hours of high water. But I’ve allowed for that. The depths plotted are for mean low water.’ Yashimoto’s head moved up and down, slowly, very deliberately. ‘So, at midnight tomorrow, what margin will I have in the basin?’

Sato looked at the chart over the Captain’s shoulder, thought for a moment. ‘About a metre more than the plotted depths. Say an average depth of thirty metres around its centre.’

‘That should be sufficient for the tests. We can always boost the pressure by pumping compressed air into the tower.’ Yashimoto patted the Navigating Officer’s shoulder. ‘Creek Island has been good to us, Ishii Sato. Strange — but fortunate — that the basin should have water so much deeper than the narrows.’

‘Not really, sir.’ Sato was mildly shocked by the Captain’s unusual familiarity. Yashimoto had never before used his first name, nor touched him physically. ‘The island is volcanic in origin,’ he went on. ‘The basin is the old crater. Its rim the steep hills around it. One would expect depth in the centre.’

Yashimoto frowned but said nothing. To him Sato’s remark, accompanied by the crooked lip smile, smacked of condescension — one would expect. Indeed! But the Navigating Officer had produced a most useful chart and it was not the moment to rebuke him. The Captain decided to let the matter pass.

Before Yashimoto could carry out his intention of visiting the fore-ends, the Engineer Officer and Hayeto Shimada, the Chief ERA, came into the control-room. Stripped to the waist, both men looked near to exhaustion, their faces grimy and perspiring, dark shadows under their eyes. Yashimoto knew that they had worked through the night for the last three nights, snatching what rest they could during the day — and that was not much.

‘All going well, Chief?’ he asked Satugawa.

The Engineer Officer nodded. ‘Progress is satisfactory, sir. We go back to the foundry shortly. It is necessary to get something to eat.’ He put his hand to his mouth to hide a yawn. ‘Sorry,’ he smiled apologetically. ‘It’s the heat. Makes a man tired.’

‘Work and heat,’ corrected the Captain. ‘And lack of sleep.’

Satugawa shrugged. ‘The work has to be done, Captain. There is no other way.’

‘I know.’ Yashimoto sighed. ‘We all suffer from lack of sleep. But that will soon change.’

Sato at the chart-table heard the Captain’s remark and smiled sardonically. Confounded hypocrite, he thought. He’s just had six hours of undisturbed sleep, and we all know it.

Yashimoto was speaking again. ‘The pressure tests tomorrow night, Chief. We continue on schedule?’

The Engineer Officer wiped the sweat from his forehead, turned tired eyes on the Captain. ‘Yes, sir.’ The tone was resigned.

His on-board inspection completed, Yashimoto went up to the casing by way of the gun-hatch rather than disturb the men at work in the conning-tower. Once on the casing he stepped carefully, choosing his way through the litter of trees and branches, the dry tinder cracking under his feet as he made his way across the gangplank to the bank. It was his custom each morning to visit the foundry-site to see how work was progressing and to encourage the men. It was a chore he enjoyed because it enabled him to escape from the confinement of the submarine with its abiding odours of battery gas, diesel oil and human sweat, and it provided an opportunity for exercise. He always combined it with a brisk walk about the hillside to check that the cutting party of the night before had not left ‘scars’ which might be visible from the air. Physical exercise had become imperative for Yashimoto ever since Masna, in a moment of intimacy, had chided him about his weight problem. This she had done with a taunting slap on his bare but ample stomach; much as he enjoyed sharing her bed, he had resented the Malaysian girl’s diminution of his dignity. Dignity was something to which Yashimoto attached great importance. Determined to surprise her, he had been dieting throughout the patrol, supplementing this with daily exercises in his small cabin.

Half an hour later, coming down the hillside through the trees, he met Satugawa on his way back to the foundry.

‘That was quick work, Chief,’ said the Captain cheerfully. ‘You should have had a rest. Even a short one helps, you know.’

Satugawa shook his head. ‘Not possible, Captain. I have had a wash and breakfast. They refresh a man. I told Shimada to rest for two hours. After that he will relieve me at the foundry. Then I will take a rest.’

Yashimoto was in the midst of praising the work of the en-gineroom staff when Satugawa held fingers to his mouth in a gesture for silence. The distant drone of aircraft engines grew steadily louder, the sound coming from the south. The two men listened intently. Though nothing could be seen from where they stood under the trees, they stared anxiously at the fragments of sky which showed through the leafy canopy.

Yashimoto looked at his watch. With a frown he said, ‘Morning reconnaissance.’

Satugawa nodded agreement. Their heads turned slowly to follow the sound of the aircraft they could not see as it passed to the westward. When it had faded into the distance, Yashimoto said, ‘Never closer than a mile, I’d say. And not as low as usual.’

‘It reminds me, Captain. Something I must discuss with you. The tests tomorrow night.’

Yashimoto’s head came up in alarm. ‘Nothing wrong is there?’

‘No. It’s not that. It’s a question of method. Before we move the boat to the centre of the basin we will have to strip off the camouflage. That will be quite a task. Once in position in the basin we will flood tanks and submerge. Say, to twenty-five metres. Then check to see how the repairs stand up to pressure. But that pressure will be entirely external.’

Yashimoto’s face arranged itself in a puzzled frown. ‘And so? What of it?’

The Engineer Officer avoided the challenging stare. ‘If that test is satisfactory we have to make another. With the boat surfaced, we will shut the upper and lower hatches, flood the conning-tower and raise the pressure in it by pumping in compressed air. The angled steel plates — those to be bolted into position over the cavity where the main pressure hull meets the vertical wall of the conning-tower — those plates are outside. The correct place, since external pressure will force them against the cavity in the pressure hull which they cover when the boat is submerged. It is necessary, however, to subject them also to internal pressure. Something equivalent to the stresses imposed by the explosion of depth-charges — the whiplash effect.’

Yashimoto continued to frown, pinching his nose between thumb and forefinger. ‘Yes, Chief. We have discussed this before, though not in such detail. What is the point you want to make?’

Satugawa looked into the trees, away from the Captain’s disconcerting stare. The second test will be the most exacting. If it fails — I don’t think it will he added hurriedly, ‘but if it fails we shall need another day in the creek. During that time the boat must continue to be concealed from observation from the air. For this reason I think we should reverse the testing order. Make the second test first.’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘We can make the second test while still alongside and without removing the camouflage. That’s the point, sir.’ Yashimoto gazed at the trees, fingered his beard. ‘It’s a good point, Chief. Yes — we’ll do that.’

Satugawa’s face showed relief. ‘I think it’s the logical thing to do, Captain.’

After a brief chat about progress of the repair work they parted, the Engineer Officer going off in the direction of the foundry while Yashimoto made for the submarine. He was in good spirits. It was nine o’clock, the real heat of the day had not yet come, and under the trees the early morning air was still cool. To talk with the Engineer Officer was always reassuring; the man was so intelligent, so competent, that it could not be otherwise. Yashimoto had little doubt that the coming tests would be successful. Buoyed by these thoughts he began to hum a simple, repetitive folktune, one which his wife Akiko often sang when she was doing the things she enjoyed, like working in the miniature garden, or painting, or arranging flowers. It would be marvellous to get home, to be with her again. Absolutely marvellous. But Kure and the Inland Sea were far away, and the war in the Pacific at a difficult stage. It seemed that I-357 would be based on Penang for a long time to come. He sighed, was momentarily sad, until pictures of life in Penang, Masna in so many of them, restored his cheerful mood.

Soon we sail, soon we sail, he hummed, putting the words to Akiko’s folktune: At dawn we dive, at dawn we dive he added, as he walked beneath the trees with a new bounce to his step.

Barratt arrived on the bridge looking like a coal-heaver, every visible part of him blackened and streaked with perspiration. Saying, ‘I’ve got her, Number One,’ he turned Restless away from the island and set course for the southwest, towards the coast and clear of the channel used by coasters and dhows making for Mocimboa da Praia. ‘I’ll brief you in a moment,’ he said. ‘But there are a few things that won’t wait. Tell Dodds I want him up here. Double quick.’ The First Lieutenant went to the phone, spoke to the Navigating Officer who soon came clattering up a bridge ladder. He made for the dusky figure in the Captain’s chair. ‘Sir?’ He did his best to look as if the Captain’s appearance was normal.

‘Out there on the starboard bow,’ Barratt pointed. ‘There are three tall casuarina trees on top of that hill. See them, Pilot?’

Dodds stared in the given direction. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘We’ll remain on this course until they are difficult to see. Then we’ll turn on to a patrol line, two or three miles of it, which keeps them in sight. Got that?’

Dodds said he had.

‘I want you to standby to fix our position, and plot the patrol line when I give the word.’

‘May I use radar, sir?’

‘No you may not. Radar is shut down and will stay that way. Use the old bow and arrow.’

A prodigious frown accompanied Dodds’s mild, ‘Aye, aye, sir,’ as he went to the compass platform.

Barratt kept the casuarina trees under close observation, first with the naked eye and then, as the distance increased, with binoculars. Though the trees were tall and on high ground, their image was blurred by distance and early morning mist. When five miles from them Barratt decided to go no further. ‘Get a fix now, Pilot,’ he ordered, ‘and plot the patrol line.’ He turned to the First Lieutenant. ‘I want a masthead lookout, Number One — plus doubling up the bridge lookouts, and two officers on the bridge until further notice. Object of the exercise? — to keep the casuarina trees under observation. What to look for? — smoke near the trees by day, fire at night. Reason why? — there is a Japanese submarine in the creek and Katu has a pal on the island who will light a fire near the casuarinas if the Jap begins to move. When you’ve got those lookouts posted I want you to take over again so that I can clean myself and get something to eat.’

The First Lieutenant’s astonishment was manifested by an unbelieving frown and a delighted grin. ‘D’you mean to say it really is there, sir?’

‘It is, Number One, and I trust it doesn’t leave before we’re ready to deal with it.’

Much happened during the next few hours while Restless steamed up and down her patrol line on a glass-smooth sea, the heat growing more intense as the sun climbed into a cloudless sky. On Barratt’s orders the shore party had been told to rest until further orders. He himself, changed and breakfasted, had gone back to the bridge at eight o’clock. In the chartroom he briefed the First Lieutenant on the shore party’s expedition, sketching in the details of what they had seen, and what Katu had heard from Aba Said’s father. ‘What’s the plan, sir? Are we reporting this to Kilindini?’ Barratt shook his head. ‘No. Not yet. That Jap won’t be tempted out if he knows we’re here. W/T silence is imperative. As to a plan…’He shrugged. ‘There isn’t one yet. I think I’ve got the beginnings of an idea. Prefer not to talk about it until it’s taken some sort of shape.’

‘Neutrality’s the problem isn’t it?’ The First Lieutenant eyed him keenly. ‘Pity the islands are Portuguese. If they were ours the RAF could bash the Jap.’

Barratt was looking at the casuarinas through binoculars. ‘Could they?’ he asked in a disinterested way. He put down the binoculars. ‘Those trees are showing up better. Mist must be lifting.’ His manner became suddenly businesslike. ‘Now, Number One. Next item on the agenda. Get Morrow to see that the loot due to Katu is placed in his catamaran by 0800. Have the catamaran and motorboat ready for lowering at that time. The motorboat is to tow Katu back to his fishing grounds.’

‘Do you want Morrow to take it away, sir?’

‘No. He’s to rest with the others when he’s dealt with Katu. Put a petty officer in the boat.’

With the catamaran in tow and a waving, smiling Katu and his possessions in it, the motorboat shoved off and made for the fishing grounds north of Tambuzi Island. The petty officer in charge had orders to return to Restless as soon as possible.

It was clear to those on the bridge that the Captain was in an uncommunicative mood. For most of the time he sat hunched in the chair on the compass platform, the white tennis hat tipped forward to protect his eyes from the sun. Occasionally he used binoculars to check on the casuarina trees, but for the most part he sat silent, deep in thought, gazing into space.

‘I wish the Old Man would go and get his head down. He looks clapped out,’ the First Lieutenant said to Lawson, the of ficer-of-the-watch.

‘Not surprising. He’s been on the go for most of the last twenty-four hours.’ Through binoculars Lawson was examining a coaster coming in from seaward, PORTUGAL in large white letters painted along its side. It was on a course likely to take it several miles clear of Restless. ‘I imagine that little chap is heading for Mocimboa da Praia.’ He put down the binoculars.

‘He must wonder what we’re doing here,’ said the First Lieutenant. ‘He’s by no means the first coaster or dhow to have seen us in this neck of the woods in the last few days.’

‘Does it matter? Remember the Old Man’s story? If asked, we’re looking for Fort Nebraska survivors. Men last heard of on a raft which may have drifted ashore on an uninhabited island.’ Lawson went on, his voice lowered. ‘Fantastic, isn’t it? That submarine being there, I mean. I never really thought it would be. Did you, Number One?’

‘No. To be honest I didn’t. Have to give the Old Man full marks for following his hunch.’ The First Lieutenant looked across to where the Captain sat. ‘Can’t imagine what he’s going to do next. He still refuses to break W/T silence. There’ll be one hell of a row when we get back.’

Lawson raised his binoculars again. ‘I suppose we’ll hang about until the Jap decides to leg it, whenever that may be. Then we’ll pounce.’

‘I wouldn’t put my money on that, Geoff. If the Jap does move it’ll be under cover of darkness. The Old Man says the distance from the huts to the submarine is about four hundred yards. They’re apparently on opposite sides of the creek. Could be difficult to see what’s going on in the dark at that distance. But even if the Africans do see, it’ll take time to get somebody up to the casuarinas to light a fire before the boat shoves off. And more time before we’ve steamed round to the other side of the island.’

‘Have you told the Old Man what you feel?’

‘No. Hadn’t thought it through until about five minutes ago. But I will tell him. Once we…’

The First Lieutenant’s sentence was interrupted by a loud, ‘Hear that,’ from Barratt who was pointing to starboard.

Almost immediately afterwards the starboard lookout reported, ‘Aircraft — green one three zero — flying low — distant. ’ ‘Catalina.’ Barratt spat the word as he glared at the flying boat through binoculars. ‘I wish he’d bugger off.’

The Catalina came closer, its fuselage glinting in the sunlight, the roundel and squadron letters clearly visible, engines muffling all other sounds. It passed over Restless, wobbled its wings in salute, and climbed steeply before flying on to the north.