Yashimoto's Last Dive

Twenty-four

An hour later than expected the motorboat returned to Restless in mid-morning and was hoisted inboard. Its Coxswain, Petty Officer Benham, reported to the First Lieutenant that Katu and his catamaran had got safely home.

‘Home?’ said the First Lieutenant. ‘I thought our contract was to deliver him to the fishing grounds off Tambuzi Island?’ ‘He lives on a little island a few miles beyond Tambuzi, sir. Mr Morrow told me that Katu was afraid he’d be in trouble with his wife for being absent without leave. When we got to the fishing grounds he kept pointing to this island we could see three or four miles ahead. I could tell from his antics that he was worried, wanted to get there quick. So I towed him to it. His old woman and some kids came running down to the beach. She was shouting at him before he got ashore. Like she wasn’t too pleased. Then when they helped haul the catamaran ashore, she saw what he had in it and she started laughing and patting him on the back.’

The First Lieutenant said, ‘Typical woman. You’ll have to take the motorboat away again shortly, Benham. Lieutenant Taylor and the TGM want it for some tests or other. Don’t ask me what they are because I haven’t a clue. Captain’s idea.’

To an audience of men off watch, not short of cheerful and ribald asides, the motorboat drew away from Restless and made for sheltered water in the lee of a low-lying islet south of the patrol line. Before leaving, it had been loaded under the supervision of the Torpedo Officer, the Coxswain and the TGM. Among the items lowered into it were a number of empty oil drums of various sizes, lengths of rope, shackles, and Senhouse slips; last of all was a heavy, rounded object concealed by a service blanket. There was much speculation and helpful advice from onlookers, including improvisations from Roll out the Barrel and Life on the Ocean Wave.

The Torpedo Officer pretended not to hear, while the Coxswain gave the audience a stony stare, easily interpreted as you lot just wait until I get back aboard. The TGM’s two finger gesture required no interpretation.

On Restless's bridge the officer-of-the-watch gave wheel and engine orders, turbines whirred and the destroyer gathered way, a tumbling swirl of foam at her stern.

Late that morning Hutchison drove Camilla to the Mombasa Club in his ancient Jeep. After a swim they sat talking in the shade of large, shiny-leafed, tropical trees, enjoying a pre-lunch drink.

‘You remember what Haddingham said about Barratt being wild, doing mad things? All that stuff?’

‘I do.’ Camilla’s calm blue eyes contemplating him over the rim of her glass mesmerized Hutchison. He looked at her with blank adoration.

‘Well,’ she prompted. ‘Go on.’

He sighed, pulled himself together. ‘Haddingham liked him. Regarded him as a good friend. He wouldn’t have said what he did about him unless he’d meant it.’

‘Where is this leading to, Hutch?’

‘Well, he’s presumably still capable of doing mad things. Particularly since he’s lost his wife. The Fort N business on top of it.’

‘I don’t think it necessarily follows, but go on,’ she said coolly.

‘We’ve both met Barratt briefly. I liked him. Don’t know about you, but to me he seemed a decent sort of chap.’

‘Oh, come on, Hutch. Get to the point.’

The Flight Lieutenant took a deep breath, looked away. ‘I thought he should be warned about CSO’s plan for tomorrow. Told that the Great and the Good are not amused by his Nelson act. If Captain (D) goes down there in the morning. He shrugged, tasted the Pimms. The consequences for Barratt could be extremely serious.’

‘So?’

Camilla’s level gaze again deflected his thoughts for a moment; sighing, he once more collected them. ‘I felt something ought to be done. I had a word with Peter Ward. Don Tuke is flying this afternoon’s Catalina to the south. Took off at noon. I thought…’

A burst of raucous laughter came from the nearby pool. Camilla put on sunglasses, looked across. ‘Charles Peaslake,’ she said. ‘Would be him, wouldn’t it.’ She turned back, sampled her Pimms once more. ‘What did you think?’

‘I’d like to get your reaction.’

‘Why mine?’

‘Because you spoke out in his defence the other day. And because you have a more than passing interest in Restless.’ ‘Have I?’ She was a picture of wide-eyed innocence.

‘Yes. Sandy Hamilton is Barratt’s Number One. If Barratt really is haywire, puts up a monster black, some of the mud may stick to Hamilton. Why didn’t he intervene, etcetera?’ ‘Mixed metaphors, Hutch. But I get the drift. I have worried about that — the mud, I mean. But I’m sure Barratt is intelligent enough to know the consequences of what he’s doing.’

Hutchison looked doubtful. ‘I wonder. People’s emotions often upset their judgement. He’s every reason to be emotionally mixed-up right now.’

She tapped the rim of her glass with well-manicured fingernails.

‘I wouldn’t do that, Camilla.’ He pushed her hand aside. ‘Every time the glass rings a sailor drowns at sea.’ ‘Rubbish,’ she said, but stopped tapping. ‘Look, Hutch. If something really helpful to Barratt is being done, I’m all for it. Let’s leave it at that.’

The motorboat headed for the break in the reef. Beyond it a strip of blue sea lay placid as a lake, the white margin of beach shimmering in the noonday sun. In the channel through the reef the sea was shallow, gnarled mounds of coral looming beneath the keel before falling away into the deeper waters of the lagoon.

The motorboat nosed slowly in, the bowman sounding with a leadline, calling the depths. At two and a half fathoms anchor was dropped. It took time after that to assemble the odd-looking contraption which quickly became known as The Rig. When it was ready it was lowered over the side, an operation accompanied by noisy exertion and muttered oaths from the TGM and the two torpedomen assisting him. The Torpedo Officer stood by with a stop-watch offering encouragement and advice. Midshipman Tripp, at his side, was responsible for entries in the notebook.

Several changes had to be made with the flotation gear, various sizes and combinations of empty drums being tested before it was decided to concentrate on two of medium size.

‘Between them they give positive buoyancy plus a useful margin,’ said the Torpedo Officer. ‘Flooding one will provide the negative buoyancy needed. It’s a question then of timing the rate of sinking and adjusting the flooding accordingly.’

‘Not so easy,’ said the TGM. Like the others he wore only shorts, his brown body glistening with perspiration, his hair wet and matted.

So the tests went on. Time and again the TGM would pull a lanyard and call, ‘Flooding now.' The Torpedo Officer would start the stop-watch; after an interval of time the TGM would announce, ‘Bottomed now,’ the Torpedo Officer would give the sinking time and the midshipman would record it. Then would begin once more the laborious business of raising the sunken rig, securing it alongside, lifting the flooded drum on board and emptying it. That done, the whole process was repeated. And repeated it had to be, many times, before Taylor shouted. ‘Marvellous. That’s just what we need — exactly two minutes. Well done, TGM. Now for the swim.’

The TGM looked up, an eyebrow raised. ‘Safe here, is it, sir?’

‘Absolutely. Sharks won’t go through shallow channels to get inside a reef. Not even to eat sailors.’

‘Are you going to swim, sir?’ inquired the midshipman with a note of disbelief.

‘Of course I am. So are you. Petty Officer Benham will take over the stop-watch and notebook.’ The Torpedo Officer looked round. ‘Right. We have four swimmers; you Tripp, the volunteers — Corrigan and Wilson — and myself. Let’s get starko for a start.’

Following the Torpedo Officer’s example, the swimmers took off their shorts and stood nude but cheerful waiting for the next instalment.

‘Fine-looking lot,’ observed the Torpedo Officer with a sardonic smile. ‘Now we come to the drill. We get into the water first. Hang on to the starboard side, waiting and watching. When the PO shouts GO we swim flat out, parallel to the beach. When he shouts STOP we stop…’

‘Logical,’ observed the midshipman.

The Torpedo Officer glared at him, ‘… and tread water. You, Tripp, will then measure the distance covered by each swimmer. For our purposes we’ll take the average of the three.’

‘How will I know the distances?’ inquired the midshipman.

‘Because, my lad, before the swim begins you will have swum to the beach and taken station opposite the motorboat. When you hear STOP you will drop a marker, stride smartly forward — a stride to a yard — until you are opposite the first swimmer when you will drop another marker. He’ll be the slowest. Ditto the second, ditto the third. He’ll be the fastest.’

‘What do I use for markers, sir?’

‘These.’ The Torpedo Officer stooped, picked up a small linen bag. ‘Tie this round your waist until you’re on the beach. It contains four small pieces of wood.’

‘Jolly good.’ Tripp took the bag, peered into it. ‘Clever. I wonder who thought of it?’

The Torpedo Officer ignored the impertinence.

At three o’clock in the afternoon Barratt woke from deep sleep, pleasantly shocked to find that it was so late. After a shower and change he went to the bridge where the Navigating Officer was on watch with Midshipman Galpin. Whereas the sky had been clear of cloud when last seen by Barratt it was now seven-tenths overcast, dark masses of cumulo-nimbus moving in from the north-east, the screen of rain beneath it rent by distant lightning.

‘What’s the barometer doing?’ he asked the Navigating Officer.

‘Falling, sir. Nothing dramatic but I think we’ll be getting that rain before long.’

With a non-committal, ‘H’m,’ Barratt went to a wing of the bridge, looked along the side. ‘I see the motorboat’s been hoisted. When did they get back?’

‘About an hour ago, sir.’

‘Is all well?’

‘I believe so. Lieutenant Taylor and the TGM are busy with the rig now.’ Dodds pointed aft. ‘You can see them forward of the quarterdeck screen. The Chief ERA and some of his people are giving a hand. Cutting and welding.’ ‘Good. Any idea how the Shipwright’s getting on?’

‘He’s modified that wooden frame. The TGM has tested it for buoyancy. Says it’s okay, sir. Looks a bit like a sledge now.’

‘I’m glad to get the news,’ said Barratt drily. ‘Nobody else seems to have thought of telling me.’

‘Your orders were that you were not to be disturbed, sir. Unless wanted on the bridge.’

‘Ah, yes. My fault. Number One about?’

‘In his cabin resting. He’s got the last dog-watch. He’s a bit short of sleep. Up all night while you were away with the shore party — and most of today.’

‘Of course. I‘d forgotten that. Inconsiderate of me. Glad you mentioned it, Dodds.’ Barratt trained binoculars on Maji’s skyline where the casuarinas stood stark and solitary against bundles of grey cloud. Taking the strap from his neck he folded it round the binoculars, put them back in the bin marked ‘CO’. ‘I’m going to see how Torps and company are getting on. Be back soon.’

When the Captain had gone Dodds went to the bridge chart-table where a midshipman was plotting the destroyer’s position. ‘Not bad,’ he said looking over the young man’s shoulder. ‘Could be neater. Your numerals are too large. Small is beautiful, Galpin.’

‘I do my best, sir.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Dodds absent-mindedly. ‘The Captain’s looking a lot better since his rest.’

Galpin nodded, a faraway look in his eyes. ‘I wonder if the messman’s going to give us mangoes tonight. Last lot were absolutely marvellous.’

The Navigating Officer grunted disapproval. ‘Food and women. All you mids ever think of these days.’

‘I didn’t say anything about women, sir.’

‘No. But you think about them, Galpin.’

Barratt was in his day-cabin making notes for the night’s briefing when the bridge phone rang. It was the officer-of-the-watch, Lawson, to report that the storm had broken. There was heavy rain, though the thunder and lightning were still some distance away. ‘The casuarinas are no longer visible, sir. Nor the island.’

‘Is it blowing?’

‘Yes. About force six. More in the squalls.’

‘Awnings furled, ventilators trimmed?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good. I’m coming up.’ Barratt resented the interruption; the briefing notes were complicated, required concentration. He’d hoped the storm would pass astern but obviously it hadn’t. For God’s sake, why now? he thought on his way to the bridge. I’d have welcomed it tonight, but not yet. Heavy rain not only shuts down visibility but puts out fires. So much, then, for the Headman’s signal if it were made now. Barratt panicked. The submarine might be about to leave, was already leaving? Restless was on the blind side of the island, at least five miles from the entrance; more when she was at the seaward end of the patrol line. Anything from fifteen to twenty minutes steaming at twenty knots. Fuel remaining was getting dangerously low so full speed was out, even for a short time. If the Jap was ready to go, the storm might be all that he was waiting for.

He made for the bridge, the rain slapping into his face, its sizzling roar shutting out other sounds. By the time he reached the compass platform, drenched but determined, he’d made up his mind. ‘Port fifteen, revolutions for twenty knots,’ he ordered, raising his voice as he spoke down the voice-pipe. To Lawson he said, ‘A/S and radar to resume normal sweeps. Navigating Officer on the bridge, double quick.’

Lawson passed the orders to the A/S and radar cabinets, and to the wardroom.

Almost immediately the bridge-speaker began to relay the high pitched pings of asdic transmissions; the bridge radar repeater, the PPI, came to life, reflecting in green light the sweep of the scanner and the echoes it portrayed, an electronic picture of the coast and islands glowing and fading with each sweep.

A breathless, frowning Dodds arrived on the bridge. ‘Sir?’

‘I’m shifting the patrol line to the west,’ Barratt told him. ‘We’ll settle for a position from which we can cover the creek entrance by radar without being seen from the creek. According to Aba Said, the sandbanks immediately to the north-east of the entrance are awash at low water. The deeper water, the channel to Mocimboa da Praia, is several miles north of Maji. Aba Said has fished that area for years. From what he says the submarine, if it comes out, will have to head north-west and won’t be in water deep enough to dive to periscope depth for about a mile.’

‘Surely the Japs will see us, sir. Once we’re in position west of the entrance?’

‘There’s high land on either side. The headlands. We’ll have three miles and a headland between us and them.’

‘If they do see us I imagine they won’t come out?’ Dodds put his belief as a question, adding, ‘Knowing they’re protected by Portugal’s neutrality while in there.’

Barratt shrugged, said, ‘This rain shows no sign of stopping.’ Like everyone else on the bridge he was soaked. The rain was cool and refreshing and oilskins insufferably hot in the tropics, so no one wore them. To Dodds, the Captain was a strange sight: cap-less, his clinging white shirt and shorts browned by the tan they covered, his hair plastered against his skull, his face quaintly serious as he concentrated on the PPI, gobules of rain dripping from the end of his nose.

Unhappy at the forced change of plan at such short notice, Barratt’s emotions were confused. He was as upset by his failure to foresee what a tropical rainstorm might have done, as he was anxious about the consequences of shifting Restless's position. It was an advantage that radar would cover the mouth of the creek, and from what Aba Said had reported it was unlikely that the transmissions would be picked up by the submarine — the trees ‘planted’ over the search receiver, plus the high land round the creek, should mask them. Restless's asdic transmissions would be outside the range of the enemy’s hydrophones. So the Japanese shouldn’t know she was there. If, however, they had a lookout on the headland, she’d be sighted once the storm passed; in that case the submarine would remain in the creek. Suspecting that their hide-out had been discovered, the Japanese would be doubly alert. Restless would have lost the advantage of surprise.

These were the things which worried him. However, by the time Restless was in position several miles to the west of the headland, optimism had overcome misgiving and he began to feel that the rainstorm was not, perhaps, the disaster he’d imagined. As it was he now had two workable options: if the submarine came out he’d sink it by gunfire before it could dive. That would save a lot of toil and sweat. If it wasn’t ready or willing to leave, he would carry out his original plan during the coming night. Though it was the more difficult option it was the one he favoured and to which, for largely emotional reasons, he felt committed.

The important thing now was to get on with the briefing notes. Once the rain stopped and visibility was back to normal he’d go to his cabin and finish them.