Yashimoto's Last Dive

Twenty-five

Making good ninety knots, the Catalina on the southbound leg of the afternoon patrol had passed well to seaward of the islands of Temba, Zanzibar and Mafia during the three hours since take-off at Kilindini. If speed was maintained it would be turning in towards the coast near Cape Delgado at about 1550. Its pilot, Flight Lieutenant Donald Tuke, knew that not long afterwards it would cover the area between Tambuzi and Medjumbi where Restless had been seen that morning.

A quiet, straightforward, and well-liked man, Tuke was not altogether happy about what he’d been asked to do, more particularly since Hutchison had insisted that secrecy was paramount. ‘That’s why a lamp signal’s no good,’ the Flight Lieutenant had said. ‘It could be read by others on board, and that’s the last thing Barratt would want. He’d be most upset if it was talked about. It contains information confidential to him personally.’

Hutchison had handed over the sealed envelope shortly before take-off and, since Hutch represented the RAF in the operations room at Navy House and enjoyed the confidence of the RN, Tuke had had neither the time nor the inclination to question the wisdom of what he’d been asked to do. It was only when thinking it over during the long boring hours flying down the coast that questions occurred to him which he realized he should have put to Hutchison. What, for example, was the message about? Why hadn’t he told him that? Who was it from? The RN? Confidential to him personally. What did that mean? Something concerning Barratt’s personal affairs? Possibly to do with the death of his wife? It was known in the Squadron that Barratt had requested patrolling Catalinas to keep clear of his ship while he searched for the Japanese submarine — one, incidentally, which everybody else believed had long since left the area. And yet, despite Barratt’s known aversion to RAF visitations, here was G-for-George about to make one at Hutchison’s request. Tuke wished he’d asked Hutchison that. Secrecy was paramount: that sounded more like something operational than personal. So what was it all about?

He gave up. He would do what he’d been asked to do, what he’d undertaken to do. But he’d have felt a lot better if he’d known the answers to those questions.

At 1550, shortly before passing over Tambuzi, G-for-George flew into a heavy rainstorm, obliging Tuke to fly on instruments. With visibility down to zero he decided to abandon the attempt to find Restless on that leg. He would, instead, fly on to Porto do Ibo, the southern limit of his patrol, before reversing course and looking for the destroyer on the northbound leg. That would involve another hour’s flying during which time the rainstorm should have moved on to the south-west. Having made this decision he asked the navigator for an ETA at a position midway between Med-jumbi and Tambuzi islands. The navigator worked on the chart, jotted the answer on the pad and passed it back — ETA 1710.

An officer in Restless who welcomed the Captain’s decision to establish a new patrol line was Sandy Hamilton. The First Lieutenant was told of it by the wardroom steward who called him at five with tea and the latest news. Having had four hours’ sleep and a shower, Hamilton did a quick change. While doing so he thought about the Captain’s decision. It was one which took a major worry from his mind, for it implied that Barratt had abandoned whatever wild-cat scheme he’d harboured. Not that Hamilton really knew what it was — the Captain kept his cards close to his chest — but the tests carried out earlier in the day by the torpedo party had provided some sort of clue and it was one which appalled the First Lieutenant. If Barratt had in mind what it suggested, it confirmed Hamilton’s belief that the Captain had lost all sense of proportion in his determination to destroy the submarine.

But the decision to cover the entrance by radar looked as if he’d now decided to wait for the Jap to come out before attempting an attack. Hamilton hoped that Barratt would now decide to break wireless silence and put Kilindini in the picture. That Restless had found the submarine would repair some of the damage done in ignoring Captain (D)’s signals, something for which there was no longer any excuse.

Sandy Hamilton finished his cup of tea, munched the last of the shortbread, and made for the bridge.

It was the heaviest rainstorm he’d experienced for a long time and when it had passed, going almost as suddenly as it had come and taking with it the hail and the wind, Petty Officer Hosokawa emerged from the bushes under which he’d been sheltering, shook himself like a dog and studied the sky. ‘Come on, boys, the storm is over,’ he called over his shoulder.

Two soaked, bedraggled, young men with rifles and bandoliers came from the bushes. Shaking the rain from their bodies, brushing it from their faces with their hands, they laughed at each other’s discomfort.

‘You’re as wet as fishes,’ said the Petty Officer.

‘It was fine,’ said one of the seamen. ‘Makes the body cool.’

Hosokawa adjusted the webbing which held his revolver, and looked at his watch. ‘Past five o’clock,’ he said. ‘Time to patrol. Lieutenant Toshida will be coming to check soon. Let’s get on with it, boys.’

They followed the Petty Officer down to where the catamaran was drawn up on a sand strip, its stern under overhanging trees, the bow end afloat. They manhandled it into the water, lay their rifles fore-and-aft, and climbed in. The patched brown sail was unfurled to flap idly in the breeze while the Petty Officer pulled the starting lanyard. After several abortive attempts the two-stroke spluttered uncertainly before screaming into life. Hosokawa took the tiller, opened the throttle, and the catamaran gathered way. Once clear of the inlet he headed for the mouth of the creek.

For Hosokawa these creek patrols were the highlights of the day. Always he steered to the eastern side, towards the headland that jutted furthest to seaward. On reaching it he would turn the catamaran and make for the headland on the western side. The journey across the mouth of the creek completed, he would head down the narrows to pass in front of the huts. Then he’d turn and make for the bluff. The patrol ended, the catamaran would return to the inlet where it would once again be drawn up on the sand.

The sentries had been placed at the mouth of the creek to stop Maji fishermen putting to sea, and to give warning of vessels approaching. Apart from the fisherman killed on the first morning, nothing untoward had happened and the sentries had found their duties uneventful. But the execution of Able Seaman Awa and the regular inspections carried out by Lieutenant Toshida — plus Lieutenant Kagumi’s surprise checks — ensured that there was no slackness. Nor, in fact, was there any lack of volunteers for a duty which provided escape from the confined and fetid atmosphere of the submarine, and the hard work of cutting, carrying and laying camouflage.

As always, Hosokawa turned the catamaran short of the mangroves at the foot of the eastern headland and set course for the western headland. The breeze, now from the northwest, had freshened and the petty officer, a sailorman to his fingertips, switched off the engines and trimmed the sail to the wind. The clouds had moved away, the sun was low in the western sky, and in the aftermath of the storm the worst heat of the day had gone. The catamaran’s gentle motion, the cry of seabirds, and the quiet swish of water against the hull induced in Hosokawa a pleasant feeling of well being.

The end of a strange interlude was in sight; the repairs to I-357 were almost completed, the tests would take place late the next day, and the submarine would leave the creek soon afterwards, for Mombasa and Penang. He was thinking of Penang and the pleasantries of life there when he heard the faint thrum of aircraft engines. Instinctively he reached for the starting lanyard, heaved at it several times before the outboard came to life. Opening the throttle, he steered for the inlet while a seaman got busy furling the sail. He was doing this when he shouted, ‘A ship.’ Pointing to the west, he added, ‘The plane is circling round a ship.’

Hosokawa looked, saw the sunlight reflected on the distant aircraft as it banked in a tight turn. Beneath it he saw the ship silhouetted against the western sky. Soon afterwards the headland had shut out the view as the catamaran bustled down the creek towards the inlet.

But the brief glance had been enough. The dark shape on the skyline was a destroyer, the circling aircraft a Catalina. He turned the catamaran sharply to port, opened the throttle wide and headed for the bluff. Within a few minutes he had rounded it, boarded I-357, and hurried down below to knock on the door of Commander Yashimoto’s cabin.

Soon after the rainstorm had passed in a last flurry of hail, Restless turned on to the new patrol line.

Barratt was about to go down to his cabin to get on with the briefing notes when a call on the radar voice-pipe sounded. Dodds answered, repeated the operator’s report: ‘Radar echo, red zero-nine-five, seven thousand yards, opening, classified small surface object.’

Barratt hurried to the port side of the bridge, trained his binoculars on to the bearing. Their powerful magnification brought closer the dark bulk of the far headland, short of it the stick of mast with its furled sail, beneath it the hull and outrigger of a catamaran, a tell-tale fluff of white at its stern.

‘Must have an engine, sir,’ Dodds called from the compass platform. He, too, was using binoculars.

‘An outboard,’ said the Captain. ‘Made in Tokyo, no doubt.’

‘You think they’re Japs, sir?’ The question was almost a yelp of surprise.

‘Yes.’

‘D’you think they can see us?’

‘Unlikely from sea level at seven thousand yards, but possible. We hadn’t seen the catamaran until radar picked it up.’

Barratt felt a strange exultation, a desire to make known his emotions, to shout, ‘Thank God’. Instead he offered a silent prayer of thanks. He had been haunted by the thought of an anti-climax — the possibility that the submarine might have left during the rainstorm while Restless was shifting station to the west of the headland. That would have made a nonsense of the long search of the last few days and the final triumph of the find. It was the sort of uneven-handed trick that Fate might have played.

But that hadn’t happened, the Japanese submarine was still there and he was convinced that the catamaran crew, their eyes at sea level, had not sighted Restless against the cloudy, rain-streaked sky of late afternoon. Had they done so they wouldn’t have continued their journey across the mouth of the creek to the further headland.

So what was he going to do? Wait, maybe for days, for the submarine to come out; break W/T silence, inform Kilindini, request orders? Or press on during the coming night with what he had in mind?

Torn between these options he went to the PPI, watched the sweeping scanner trace its picture in phosphorescent light, saw the moving green speck turning short of the distant headland, imagined Japanese faces, sinister and evil. He gripped the bridge coaming more tightly.

The faint sound of an aircraft’s engines broke into his thoughts. It was followed immediately by reports from the bridge lookouts, from the officer-of-the-watch, and from the radar office. ‘Aircraft, green three-three-zero, six thousand yards, closing fast, flying low.’

Wondering why it had not been picked up earlier, Barratt realized that it must have come up from the south-east, close to the water, screened from the destroyer’s radar by Maji Island. It was soon sighted, a Catalina flying at no more than a hundred feet above the sea. Making for Restless it pulled up in a steep climb as it drew close, passed overhead with a noisy roar then, banking steeply, it began to circle the ship. An Aldis lamp winked from the fuselage.

The First Lieutenant came clattering up the ladder on to the bridge. Barratt, scarcely aware of his arrival, glared in frustration as Restless's signalman gave the ‘go-ahead’. The Catalina’s lamp winked again and began, slowly by naval standards, to transmit its message, the signalman calling aloud the words as he read them: Stand — by — for — urgent — message — drop.

The signalman acknowledged, lowered his Aldis lamp. ‘Any reply, sir?’

‘None.’ Barratt’s voice was flat, hostile. ‘Let him get on with his bloody drop. The quicker the better.’ He turned to Dodds. ‘Stop engines. Slow astern together.’

The Navigating Officer passed the order to the wheel-house. The note of the turbines dropped. Seconds later the ship shuddered as the astern turbines took over.

Barratt turned to the First Lieutenant. ‘Get a couple of hands to standby in the waist to pick up the drop. Double quick.’ The order was barked, a measure of the Captain’s anger.

The Catalina completed another wide circle round Restless before drawing ahead. With engines throttled back it flew straight and level into wind, a few hundred feet above the sea. Shortly before crossing ahead of the destroyer it released a canister, its long be-ribboned tail fluttering down behind the container until it splashed into the sea on Restless's port bow.

The Catalina passed over once more, waggled its wings in salute, climbed steeply and flew off to the north. Barratt gave it a last long look of disgust. ‘I wonder whose bright idea that was? It’s completely buggered our low-profile act.’

A bridge phone rang. Dodds answered, listened, his eyes on the sea. ‘Will do,’ he said. He hung up the handset, went across to the compass platform where the Captain sat looking wet and depressed. ‘Canister’s recovered, sir,’ he said. ‘Number One’s bringing it to the bridge.’

Barratt frowned, shrugged. ‘Have it sent down to my cabin. I’m going to change into something dry. Put the ship back on the patrol line, revolutions for sixteen knots. Over to you.’

‘Aye, aye, sir.’

Barratt got up from the chair, had a last look round the horizon and went below.

Dodds felt sorry for the Captain, understood how he felt about the Catalina. What message could be so urgent that it had to be dropped by canister rather than transmitted by W/T? All HM ships at sea maintained a listening watch whether or not they observed wireless silence. Kilindini knew that. Why resort to a method which so blatantly drew attention to Restless's presence? Particularly since it was known to be the last thing Barratt wanted. The Japs, only a few miles away, would certainly have heard the Catalina and seen it circling.

It was a bridge messenger and not the First Lieutenant who brought the canister to the day-cabin. Barratt thought he knew why. He’d ignored Sandy Hamilton when he’d come to the bridge during the drop. It hadn’t been deliberate; it was simply that he’d been too upset by the Catalina’s intrusion to think of anything else at that moment. He’d make amends later. Have a friendly chat with Number One. Send for him shortly.

But now for the canister. He unscrewed the lid, removed the waterproof bag, took from it the sealed envelope, opened it and took out a sheet of notepaper. Unfolding and smoothing it, he laid it on the desk blotter. Frowning as he read, he exclaimed, ‘Bloody cheek,’ pushed the message away, looked despairingly at the silver-framed photograph on the desk top: Caroline and himself outside Raffles. He picked up the notepaper, looked at it again. The printed heading made clear whence it had come; the members’ reading and writing room of the Mombasa Club. It bore that day’s date, 23 November, 1942, but there was no name or signature to indicate its origin. Once again he read the typed message: Afraid your Nelson act not going down well at Navy HQ. Captain (D) coming down in tomorrow morning's Catalina to board you — leaving here 0400 unless you have by then responded to the recall signal. Situation serious. This message is unofficial, personal and strictly confidential, its existence unknown to Navy HQ. Best of luck.

Barratt had no idea who was responsible. It wouldn’t be Captain (D), or the SOO, or for that matter anybody reasonably senior in the Royal Navy. Too unorthodox for that. Might be an RNVR or a Wren, not that he knew anyone in Kilindini well enough for them to bother much about him. Or was it RAF? After all, the pilot of the Catalina must have known who gave it to him to drop. He realized that the anonymous sender was trying to be helpful. It was a friendly act. And it had already achieved something: it had made up Barratt’s mind finally. Once Captain (D) arrived matters would be taken out of his hands. There was no point now in considering the alternatives. It would have to be Operation Maji — Mark Two and it would have to be that night.

The clock over the desk showed 1728. Another seven or eight hours. He’d have to put Number One in the picture, finish the briefing notes, and get the act together.

Tomorrow morning's Catalina — leaving here 0400. He managed a humourless laugh. With any luck it would all be over by 0400.