Yashimoto's Last Dive

Twenty-three

The unwelcome visit of the Catalina provided the opportunity for Hamilton to tell the Captain of his misgivings. ‘We’re patrolling a line to the south of the island, sir. We can see the casuarinas but we can’t see the entrance to the creek because it’s in the north shielded from us by high land. If there’s any hitch, if the Africans are late in spotting what’s happening and getting the fire going at the casuarinas, the Jap may get clear and dive before we’ve had time to cover the distance to the entrance. Isn’t that a bit of a snag?’

Barratt blinked weary eyes at the younger man. ‘It certainly, is, Number One. It’s been worrying me. But there’s no easy answer. To really bottle up the sod we should take station outside the entrance to the creek. But if we do that we’ll be seen and he won’t come out. Said’s dad says there’s a skimmer on guard duty at the mouth of the creek and we know there are sentry posts along the narrows. So what do we do? By keeping a low profile here we’ve a chance of catching Mister Bloody Nippon with his pants down. Show ourselves at the entrance and he won’t lower them. I haven’t gone to all these lengths, W/T silence, shut down radar, ignoring signals, in order to blow it all by strutting about where we can be seen.’

It was an unusually long dissertation for the Captain, but the First Lieutenant sensed that he’d been glad of the opportunity to discuss the problem.

‘It is a difficult situation, sir. I wonder…’He hesitated. ‘I wonder if it wouldn’t be a good idea to pass the buck to Kilindini. Tell them where the Jap is and ask for orders. At least Restless will get the credit for having found the boat.’

With a dismissive flourish of his hand Barratt said, ‘I don’t give a damn about the credit, Number One. My objective is to destroy that submarine and her crew. For the last time, let me make it quite plain. We are not, repeat not, going to break W/T silence.’

The First Lieutenant looked away. ‘I see, sir,’ he said quietly, adding, ‘And the signal of recall?’

‘That’s my business, Number One.’ Barratt’s manner had become frosty. ‘You needn’t worry. Your yardarm’s clear.’

The rebuke was not lost on the First Lieutenant. ‘Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to butt in. It’s only that — well…’

‘Well what?’

‘I’m worried about what the consequences might be for you, sir.’

Barratt got up from the Captain’s Chair, stretched and yawned. ‘Leave the worrying to me, Number One,’ he said with a thin-lipped smile. ‘I’m going to have a rest now. I’ll think about the problem of where we should be, north or south of the island. That and sleep are my major preoccupations at the moment.’

The First Lieutenant shook his head as he watched the Captain go down the bridge ladder. Poor chap, he thought. Glad I’m not in his shoes. He joined Lawson at the bridge screen. The Gunnery Officer regarded him quizzically. ‘Did you tell him what you thought?’

‘Yes. He’s as worried about it as I am. But it’s not easy.’ The First Lieutenant repeated what the Captain had told him.

‘So what happens next?’

‘We stick to the patrol line for the time being. He’s gone down to have a rest and think about it.’

‘Not surprised. Long time no zizz for him.’

The First Lieutenant focused binoculars on the distant trees. The mist had gone and the stark silhouette of the casuarinas was visible with the naked eye. ‘I’m worried about the Old Man,’ he said.

‘Yes. He looks absolutely knackered.’

‘It’s not that. The trouble is…’ The First Lieutenant

lowered his voice. This thing’s become a personal vendetta.’ ‘Changi Gaol?’

‘Of course.’

‘Incredible, Peter. No, I can’t think why. Is that all? Good.’ Hutchison put down the phone, looked at the inquiring faces round the table in the operations room. ‘That was the Squadron duty officer. They’ve received a signal from Dar-es-Salaam. He says G-for-George has just landed there with engine trouble. Being checked now. Its Captain says he flew over Restless at 0815 this morning, eight miles south-east of Cape Ulu. She was steaming at about 15/17 knots on a north-easterly course. Neither he nor the ship made any attempt to communicate with each other. Otherwise everything appeared to be normal. Except…’ Enjoying the moment, Hutchison paused. ‘Except that a few miles north of Restless he sighted her motorboat towing a catamaran with a lone black man in it. They were heading for Tambuzi Island.’

‘Where’s that, Jakes?’ The question came from a four-ring Captain RN with sandy hair, sunken cheeks and friendly grey eyes.

‘Here, sir.’ The RNVR Lieutenant pointed with the cue tip to a black dot on the wall chart.

‘Motorboat towing the catamaran away from Restless — extraordinary,’ said Captain (D).

‘Some sort of rescue operation, I imagine,’ said the four-ring Captain. ‘Catamaran in trouble. Restless sends help. Lone African requests a tow home. The RN in its A A role.’ ‘For me, Restless gives the impression of having withdrawn from the War,’ said the SOO.

A perspiring Captain (D) glared at the punkah. ‘The squeak’s stopped but the performance is pathetic.’ He puffed out crimson cheeks. ‘Can’t make out what Barratt’s up to. He’s been down there for the best part of twenty-four hours. In the area generally — along the coast and among the islands — since early on the twenty-first. That’s-let’s see.’ He glanced at the calendar. ‘About fifty-four hours plus.’ Unfolding a clean linen handkerchief he began a systematic mopping of his face and neck.

The SOO squinted down the length of his nose. ‘Since when,’ he said, ‘we’ve heard from her once. The signal informing us that she’d picked up the Fort Nebraska survivor. She neither acknowledged nor replied to ours of the twenty-first, nor that of the twenty-second recalling her.’

Hutchison held up a hand as if asking to be heard. ‘In fairness to Lieutenant Commander Barratt, sir — he did exchange Aldis lamp signals with Catalina S-for-Sugar in Rovuma Bay on the twenty-first. Passed that “Getting warmer, W/T silence imperative” message.’ The Flight Lieutenant looked across to Camilla at the far end of the room, to be rewarded with the faintest smile of approbation.

The four-ring Captain — James Pelly, the Admiral’s Chief Staff Officer — short title CSO — looked relieved. ‘Oh well. I’m glad he did that.’ Pelly was for the first time involved in what had become known at Naval HQ as The Barratt Business.

Captain (D) exchanged a barely perceptible smile with the SOO. They both knew that Jim Pelly had distinguished himself in destroyers earlier in the war. There was little doubt where his sympathies lay.

‘And that’, said the SOO, ‘was the last we heard from him. I need hardly remind you, sir…’ He regarded the Chief Staff Officer with the lugubrious expression of a spaniel, ‘… that we require Restless here before midnight on the twenty-sixth. The carrier arrives AM on the twenty-seventh.’

‘Twenty-eighth,’ corrected the CSO. ‘The signal amending her ETA came in this morning.’

The SOO’s eyebrows arched. ‘Why haven’t we had it, Jakes?’

‘We have, sir.’ Jakes looked mildly surprised. ‘With the first batch this morning.’

‘I wasn’t shown it.’

‘You initialled the clipboard copy, sir.’

‘Did I?’ The SOO’s tone suggested he hadn’t. ‘Well, anyway, Restless has to be here to augment the forces available to carry out an A/S sweep in advance of the carrier’s arrival — and to help with close escort for the last fifty miles in.’

Captain (D)’s expression was bleak. Trouble is, CSO, the Flotilla has dispersed: two are at sea off Diego Suarez, there’s one in Mahe, one refitting at the Cape, and one with that last southbound convoy. That leaves me with only two fleet destroyers for escort duties, Rampage and Restless, plus a couple of corvettes and three A/S whalers. We’re pretty thin on the ground just now. With the Japanese resuming submarine operations in the Mozambique Channel this represents a bit of a headache.’

‘Yes,’ the CSO agreed. ‘I’m sure it does. But now, about Restless. I know it’s difficult to understand Barratt’s failure to reply to signals, particularly the recall signal. Of course his behaviour seems incomprehensible but…’He paused, twiddled the signet ring on his finger. ‘The man must have a reason. I think, gentlemen, that he knows where the submarine is. He’s waiting for it to put to sea. When it does he’ll attack it. That’s why he’s going to a great deal of trouble to ensure it doesn’t know he’s there. I can’t think of any other explanation that makes sense.’

‘So what do we do, CSO?’ Captain (D) spread his hands in a gesture of despair.

The CSO gazed hopefully at the wall chart, examined his fingernails, smiled amiably. ‘I think we give him one more chance. Tell me,’ he turned to Hutchison. ‘If this weather holds, any reason why a Catalina shouldn’t land on the sea close to Restless?’

The Flight Lieutenant said, ‘None at all, sir. No problem. But I don’t understand.’

‘Good.’ The CSO smiled again. ‘I suggest that you, SOO, or Captain (D) if he’d prefer it, join the Catalina for tomorrow morning’s reconnaissance. It means an early start,’ he warned. ‘But if Restless is still down there the Catalina lands close to her, and you ask the destroyer to send across a boat. When it arrives you request transfer to Restless. You have orders from the Admiral which you have to deliver in person. Once on board you ask Barratt what the deuce he’s playing at.’ This time the CSO smiled with his teeth but not with his eyes. ‘If you’re dissatisfied with his reply you have my authority to relieve him of his command and hand it over to the First Lieutenant. You inform him that Restless is to return here forthwith and you remain in the ship to see that she does. You send Barratt back in the Catalina. I think that’s probably the best way of tackling a difficult situation.’

The SOO shifted in his chair, looked uncomfortable. T do think it would be more appropriate if Captain (D) went, sir.’

Captain (D)’s blue eyes twinkled with pleasure. T shall be absolutely delighted to do so,’ he said. ‘Always wanted to sample a Catalina.’

A phone on the SOO’s desk rang. He picked it up. ‘SOO speaking. Oh yes. Who from? DNI Whitehall. Good, let’s have it?’ The SOO directed a blank look at the faces round the table as he listened to the voice at the other end. ‘Very good. Thank you.’ He put down the phone. ‘That was Godley — Fleet Intelligence Officer. The reply from the Director of Naval Intelligence has come at last. His Portuguese oppo reports that there is no Japanese submarine in any Mozambique port. Nor has there been since the War began.’

Hutchison looked at the wall clock — 1115. Don Tuke would be taking off at noon. There was just time enough.

The hyper-active state of Barratt’s mind made sleep impossible and though close to exhaustion he abandoned the attempt not long after reaching the sea-cabin. Awake, he contemplated the deckhead above his pillow with tired eyes, seeing nothing but the red light and the pictures in his mind: the tree-covered submarine lying against the bank below the bluff, its bows, according to Aba Said’s father, facing the end of the narrows. The image of the Japanese Captain’s face, formerly that of the commandant of Changi Gaol, replaced the submarine; the slanted eyes arrogant, the hoarse voice mouthing absurd pidgin English: Boat is gleen like tlee — enemy think is cleek — bow tubes command nallows — high land plotects boat flom enemy bombs, also guns. So, English captain, what can you do? Nothing — you must wait.

Barratt cursed aloud. The imagery was so real, his anguish so fierce, that his body shook with emotion. There won’t be any forcing of the narrows, any attack from the air, my nasty little yellow man, but by God you’re going to pay for what you’ve done.

He dismissed the imaginary conversation, shook away the images: that sort of thing was silly, unnecessary, led nowhere. What was needed now was constructive thought. He got off the bunk, helped himself to a glass of water, sat on the settee thinking, his head buried in his hands. Within the next few minutes he’d made up his mind. What had been the beginnings of an idea ever since Operation Maji, began to take shape.

That, he said to himself, is how I shall do it.

‘You sent for me, sir?’ The First Lieutenant, stood in the doorway of the sea-cabin.

‘Yes.’ Barratt’s half smile enlivened an otherwise listless face, the eyes red with exhaustion. ‘I’m working on an idea, Number One. A plan of attack. If I can sort it into practical shape I’ll tell you about it. The time’s short, and there’s a lot to be done. To develop the idea I’ll have to chat to Taylor, to the TGM, the Coxswain, the Shipwright, Aba Said, Morrow and maybe others. I’ll see them in my day-cabin. There’s more room there. So don’t be disturbed by the various comings and goings. First two on my list are Taylor and the TGM. Get them to report to me there in ten minutes, will you?’

The First Lieutenant began to say something, but stopped in mid-sentence. After a moment of strained silence, the two men avoiding each other’s eyes, he said, ‘Aye, aye, sir,’ and went along the passageway. Barratt waited before following him down the ladder which led to the wardroom and officers’ accommodation.

‘That’s roughly what I have in mind.’ Barratt swung his chair round from the desk, handed a sheet of notepaper to the RNVR Lieutenant sitting on the settee near him.

Restless's Torpedo Officer, John Taylor, examined the rough pencil sketch before passing it to the Torpedo Gunner’s Mate who sat near him. ‘Doesn’t look too complicated, McGlashan. What d’you think?’

With a non-committal, ‘We’ll see, sir,’ the Petty Officer took the sketch. After a minute or so of frowning concentration he looked up. ‘A bit unusual, I’d say. But it should work.’

Barratt seemed pleased. ‘You’ll see from the notes I’ve made that the overall weight mustn’t exceed two hundred pounds. Any difficulty there?’

The TGM shook his head. ‘It means bleeding out about half the charge. But Amatol is stable enough. No problem there, sir.’

The Torpedo Officer agreed. ‘The buoyancy drum — size, rate of sinking, etcetera — is the only difficult part,’ he said. ‘And the primer will have to be modified. Both will involve a good deal of trial and error. We’ll need the motorboat for that.’

Barratt glanced at the clock on his desk. ‘You can have the motorboat and anything else you need, Taylor. But time is the essence of the contract. It’s now 0945. Report back to me if you have any serious problems. You should finish testing and have the thing ready by 1600. Think you can manage that?’

The Torpedo Officer turned to the TGM. ‘That gives us about six hours. We should have it ready well within that time. What d’you think, TGM?’

‘Aye, sir. We’ll have it ready.’

The note of confidence was sweet music to Barratt.

Next to be called to the day-cabin were the Shipwright, Petty Officer Trewhela, known to the ship’s company as ‘Chippy’ — and the Coxswain. Once again the Captain opened proceedings with a pencil sketch; the requirement this time was less exacting. ‘A sort of stretcher, made of wood,’ he explained.

‘It’s got to be strong enough for the job. Allow for rough handling, but keep the weight down.’

The Shipwright, a West Countryman with beetling eyebrows, tufts of hair growing from his cheekbones, and fierce dark eyes which belied his good nature said, ‘Leave it to me, sir. There’s no problem.’

‘I’d like you to see to the fastenings, Coxswain, and the release and flooding gear.’ Barratt took the sketch from the Shipwright, passed it to CPO Gibbs. The Coxswain studied it briefly. ‘Rope strops, Senhouse slips, toggles and lanyards. Should be straightforward.’

‘The handling will probably be in complete darkness. Keep the toggles and Senhouse slips plumb on top of the float where they can be found by feel.’

‘We’ll watch that, sir.’

‘Let me know if serious problems arise. I want you to have everything on the top line by 1600. All the bits and pieces — yours and the torpedo department’s — to be on deck for assembling by 1600, at which time report to me.’

‘Forward of the quarterdeck screen, sir?’ suggested the Coxswain.

‘Yes. That’ll do fine. Pass the word to the TGM.’

‘Aye, aye, sir.’

Last to come to the Captain’s cabin were Peter Morrow and Aba Said, the latter still goggle-eyed after a rambling inspection of the white man’s strange ship. Barratt’s formidable series of questions about Maji Island, the Japanese submarine, the routine of its crew, particularly that of the sentries, were put to the African by Morrow who relayed the answers to the Captain.

Do the Portuguese authorities come to the island? The last time was three years back when a police official came to make inquiries about a wanted man. Where is the nearest Native Commissioner? At Mocimboa da Praia. Do the Maji people go there to see him? Not much. Usually to report births and deaths, though sometimes this is long after the event. Do they pay taxes? No. We are too poor.

The interrogation finished, Barratt said, ‘Tell him I am very grateful for this information. Also that we will return him to Maji before daylight tomorrow. Tell him, also, that I may need his help against the Japanese tonight. If he gives it he’ll get the same reward as Katu did.’

Morrow told Aba Said what the Captain had said; the young African alternately frowned and grinned, the former whenever the Japanese were mentioned, the latter in a big way when Morrow got on to the subject of rewards. ‘He likes the idea of the loot, sir,’ explained the Sub-Lieutenant, ‘but he’s anti-Jap anyway. The fisherman they killed that first morning was his brother.’

The discussions at an end, they left the cabin about the time the shrill note of a boatswain’s call sounded over the ship’s broadcast to be followed by a disembodied voice announcing the time — ‘Ten hundred’.

Exhausted but relieved, decisions made and plans in hand, Barratt stretched out on the settee. With his mind at rest he fell asleep.