Yashimoto's Last Dive

Twenty-seven

From the Captain’s cabin the First Lieutenant went to the wardroom where officers off watch had gathered. Some were sitting about talking or reading, others were involved in games of darts and chess. Midshipman Galpin was stretched out in a corner, apparently asleep.

The Surgeon Lieutenant put down his book. ‘Hullo, Number One. Long time no see.’

‘Had my head down most of the afternoon. Been with the Old Man since.’ The First Lieutenant looked round the wardroom, raised his voice. ‘Anybody seen Andrew Weeks?’

‘Playing Judo with AB Carmichael on the iron deck, sir.’ Galpin, it appeared, had not been asleep.

‘Tell him I want him up here, chop-chop.’

‘Aye, aye, sir.’ The midshipman got up, shook himself, ran a hand through tousled hair and made for the door.

‘Care for a drink, Number One?’ The Surgeon Lieutenant yawned.

‘No thanks, Docker. Too early. And there’s a busy night ahead.’

‘Oh, what’s on?’

The First Lieutenant lowered his voice. ‘Quite a lot. We’re going into battle, Docker.’

‘Good heavens, Number One. Quel drame.’ The doctor pulled himself up in the armchair. ‘Who with?’

‘You’ll hear in due course. The Old Man’s doing a fireside chat at 1830 — there’ll be a briefing in here at 1900 — for the chosen.’

‘Well, well. Going back to War, are we? Giving up the desert island jolly? How very exciting. Will I be among the chosen?’

The First Lieutenant took off his uniform cap, sat down. ‘I doubt it. The Old Man hasn’t given me the list yet. He’s working on it.’

The doctor shrugged. ‘Well, it all sounds very mysterious. Remember you can count on me for anything safe. Cut me out if it’s not.’

After a moment’s preoccupation, the First Lieutenant said, ‘How would you define a psychopath?’

‘Odd question, Number One. What’s on your mind?’

‘The Old Man used the word a moment ago. Talking about the Fort Nebraska massacre. He said the Jap captain must be a psychopath. I know roughly what the word means but wondered about its medical definition.’

‘My dear chap, it runs to pages. Difficult to be brief but I’ll try. In general a psychopath is someone emotionally unstable to an almost pathological degree, though he has no specific or marked disorder.’

‘Can you enlarge on that? Sounds a bit obscure.’

The doctor looked surprised. ‘I thought I’d put it in sufficiently simple terms for even a naval officer to comprehend. However, let’s have another shot.’ He scratched his chin. ‘A psychopath is a mentally deranged, abnormal personality. Difficult to classify psychopaths. There are two main groups: the aggressive and the inadequate. The sadists, the killers, the hard men, belong to the former. The latter include the impulsive, the irrational and the unbalanced. Social misfits, minor delinquents, trouble-makers, Don Quixotes. They can be highly intelligent, gifted, but their behaviour is repeatedly abnormal, their attitude turbulent and emotional, particularly under stress. One often sees the beginnings of it in adolescents; the so-called difficult children. If the Japanese captain is a psychopath I imagine he’d come under the aggressive label. But he’s probably not one. Simply conforming to the norms of Japanese militaristic behaviour. They’re a pretty primitive lot in that respect.’

The First Lieutenant half smiled. ‘I didn’t mean you to write a book on the subject, Docker. But thanks all the same. Most interesting.’

Further conversation was interrupted by the arrival of an athletic-looking young man wearing loose, baggy, canvas jacket and shorts. ‘Excuse my rig, Number One, but Galpin said you wanted me chop-chop. Carmichael’s been giving me a work-out.’

‘So I see.’ The First Lieutenant eyed the red weal across Weeks’s cheek. ‘I’m due for the Last Dog tonight. I wondered if you’d do it for me. The Old Man’s given me a job.’

‘Yes, of course I will. I’m free until the morning watch tomorrow. Then I’m on with you.’

‘That’s why I asked you. Anyway, thanks for the help.’ The First Lieutenant picked up a magazine. ‘Better get back to your bruising.’

Lieutenant Andrew Weeks, RNVR, left the wardroom at the double.

‘Incredible,’ said the doctor. ‘In this weather.’

‘Mad dogs and Englishmen.’ The First Lieutenant shook his head, put down the magazine unopened.

Sitting at the desk in his cabin, head in hands, Sandy Hamilton stared bleakly at the snapshot in the silver frame: a young woman in a bathing costume sitting on a beach towel against a background of coconut palms; tresses of fair hair trailing forward over brown shoulders, white rimmed sun-glasses giving a commonplace anonymity to a face he knew to be beautiful. The scrawled inscription, Love, Camilla, was the only clue to the subject’s identity. But he wasn’t thinking of anything as pleasant as the week-end at the Tuna Inn, nor the promise of a repeat performance on Restless's return to Kilindini.

Something more serious, less pleasant, was occupying his mind; the conversation in the Captain’s cabin shortly after the message drop. Barratt had given no hint of what was in the message, no indication of its origin. It was almost certainly from Navy HQ in Kilindini since it was an official drop, but why that and not W/T? Other than remarking that it was information, not orders, and that it had influenced his decision, Barratt hadn’t referred to it. Nor had he mentioned it when outlining his plan of attack, a plan which struck Hamilton as harebrained, suicidal; the words he’d so nearly used to Barratt. The Captain had not gone into the details of Operation Maji Mark Two — ‘You’ll get all that at the briefing, Number One. Nothing to be gained by going over it now’ — but its outlines were enough to fill Hamilton with foreboding. Not so much for the tactical disaster and the casualties he foresaw, as for the scale of the diplomatic consequences of so flagrant a breach of Portugal’s neutrality, however much her sympathies might lie with Britain.

The Captain had made no attempt in recent weeks to conceal his attitude towards the Japanese. It was not the intense dislike of an enemy that was normal and rational; fiercer, more primitive than that, it was motivated, Hamilton suspected, by emotional stress. The whole affair, the way in which the hunt for the submarine had been conducted, the failure to answer signals from Captain (D), the refusal to obey orders, or to cooperate with the RAF, was so irrational, so abnormal, as to suggest a mind that was unbalanced.

It was not the captain of the submarine Hamilton had had in mind when asking for the definition of a psychopath:… someone emotionally unstable to an almost pathological degree though he has no specific or marked disorder… impulsive, can be highly intelligent… attitude turbulent and emotional… The doctor’s words persisted in the First Lieutenant’s mind. Did not Barratt’s actions place him somewhere in that catalogue of symptoms?

The weather began to change soon after sunset, tumbling masses of cloud drifting in from the north-east, the barograph stylus tracing a steep downward slope as the glass fell.

In the chartroom Charlie Dodds watched the trace with frowning disapproval. Though not on watch he was in a constant state of anxiety with the destroyer close inshore in such hazardous waters, and a dark night with rainstorms still to come. A few minutes earlier the Captain had come to the bridge, looked at the weather and decided that the patrol line should be shifted a mile to the north-east to give Restless better radar coverage of the creek.

Dodds had pointed out that the alteration would make sighting of the destroyer easier for the Japanese each time she reached the north-eastern end of the patrol line, particularly if there was moonlight.

‘I’ve no doubt we’ve been sighted, Pilot. By now they must have put a lookout on the headland.’

‘Isn’t that a bit of a snag, sir?’

‘No. Good thing if they see us at times. What’s more, unless this sky clears there won’t be any moonlight. In that case we’ll have to take steps to ensure that they do see us.’

That had sounded very odd to the Navigating Officer, but he decided against asking for the Captain’s reasons. No doubt all would be made clear at the briefing. So he concentrated once more on the chart and the problems of the night ahead. The only shore light which would be of any use was on Tambuzi Island. With its ten mile range it would be visible briefly when Restless turned at the north-eastern extremity of her beat. Not that shore lights mattered much now that radar was once again in continuous operation. That, plus asdic and the echo-sounder, would make the night less hazardous. Nevertheless he hoped the sky would clear by the time the moon rose.

He switched off the chart-table light and went to the bridge for a chat with John Taylor who was keeping the first dog-watch with Peter Morrow. Having briefed Taylor on the navigational aspects of the new patrol line, he went down to his cabin for a shower and change. While doing so he thought about the coming night; the ship was buzzing with rumours about what was to happen, some more lurid than others. There seemed to be no doubt that there would be action of a sort before daylight; but how, when, and where would have to wait for the Captain’s fireside chat. Notice of it had already been given by the Coxswain over the ship’s broadcast system. Rubbing himself down in the shower, Dodds wondered if he’d be doing the same thing on the following night, or was this to be his last shower? The Biblical ring of that made him smile sheepishly. He supposed he was over-dramatizing the situation. But he couldn’t deny the queasy feeling somewhere in his stomach. He knew it had nothing to do with hunger.

Yashimoto was entering the day’s events in the War Diary, notably the sighting of the British destroyer, the circling Catalina, and the steps which he had taken to prepare I-357 for the possibility of a surprise attack that night. He had almost completed the task when, at his request, the Engineer Officer came to the cabin.

‘Sit down, Chief.’ The Captain’s face was grave as he made room on the settee. ‘There is much we must discuss. First, the repairs.’

‘They’re well in hand, Captain. We’ve got the better of that confounded hinge, but we’ve problems with fractured air pressure lines on the starboard side where the piping by-passes the lower hatch. Damage caused by the torn plating when the shell burst. We’re replacing the damaged sections of piping. This will not delay the programme for tomorrow night’s tests.’

Yashimoto shook his head. ‘As long as that destroyer patrols off the entrance we may have to defer, or even abandon, those tests, Chief. They could interfere with our state of preparedness. We have to be ready to repel an attack at any time during the night. If it has not come by first light — ’ he paused. ‘We must wait to see what tomorrow brings.’

The Engineer Officer drew a hand across tired, sunken eyes. ‘So you think the British might attack, although this is neutral territory?’

After a brief examination of his fingernails, Yashimoto said, ‘To be honest, Chief, I do not think they will. The British still take an old-fashioned view of the sanctity of neutrality. But I cannot count on that. The island is small, remote and unimportant. The coast hereabouts is also remote. Probably no more than a handful of Portuguese colonial officials spread over tens of thousands of square miles. The British might take a chance. Fortunately they can’t know exactly where the boat is lying, and they must

appreciate the dangers of attempting to force the narrows.’

‘Plunging gunfire?’ suggested Satugawa.

‘How? If they do not know where the target is? No — I regard an attack as possible but unlikely.’ Yashimoto held up an admonitory finger. ‘You must treat that as strictly confidential. The crew must believe an attack is imminent.’

‘You may count on me, Captain. But what, then, do you think the British will do?’

‘Watch and wait, I think. Ask their Fleet HQ in Kilindini for orders, though Keda tells me there have not yet been wireless signals of sufficient strength to suggest transmission from any vessel near us. But lamp signals were probably exchanged with the Catalina when it was over the ship. The clue to further action may lie in those signals.’ He nodded, as if confirming his conclusion. ‘In the meantime, as I’ve said, they’ll watch and wait. The destroyer is patrolling off the headland now. Shinzo Nikaido tells me our search receiver is picking up intermittent radar signals. They occur at fairly regular intervals, their bearing always restricted to the sector opposite the mouth of the creek. The destroyer must be on a patrol line which brings her into that sector for short periods. Most of the time she appears to remain west of the creek where the headland masks the transmissions.’ Yashimoto opened the desk drawer, took from it the box of Penang cheroots, held it out to the Engineer Officer. ‘A cheroot, Chief?’

‘Thank you, Captain.’ Satugawa took one, produced a lighter, put the flame to Yashimoto’s cheroot, then to his own. ‘Little chance, I suppose, of attacking the British carrier?’

Yashimoto drew on his cheroot, inhaled, expelled a thin column of smoke from between pursed lips. ‘It is evening of the 23rd November. The carrier’s amended ETA off Mombasa is now 27th/28th. If we leave here even as late as the 25th we should be in time. Later than that might still give us an opportunity to attack. The carrier is bound for Durban. She must leave Mombasa in due course. If we can’t get there in time to attack her on arrival, we must do so when she leaves.’

Satugawa found the Captain’s confident tone, his calm demeanour, impressive. Once again he was grateful that a man of such quality commanded I-357. Nonetheless, he felt bound to ask the obvious question: ‘But if this British destroyer remains on patrol outside, what d’you intend doing, sir?’

Through the thin curtain of smoke which hung between them Yashimoto contemplated his questioner through narrowed eyes. ‘We shall put to sea sometime during the next forty-eight hours — even if we have to abandon the tests. We will choose the time, the moment for action. It will have to be dark. We will move into the basin and trim right down. At either midnight or four o’clock in the morning — times when the destroyer’s watches will be changing and vigilance will be relaxed — we will make our move. Around those times the headland lookout will report by signal torch on each occasion that the destroyer reaches the farthest end of its patrol line. On receiving that signal at an appropriate moment, I will take I-357 through the narrows at full speed, diving to periscope depth within a mile of clearing the headlands. Sato’s chart indicates that the depth of water shelves steeply after the first mile.’

Satugawa took the cheroot from his mouth. ‘The destroyer’s asdic and radar, Captain?’

Yashimoto shook his head. ‘Their asdic is effective only up to fifteen hundred yards. Towards the end of that range signals are weak, particularly against the background of land and shoal water which we shall have. Within a few minutes of clearing the headlands the radar target will be no more than our periscope — too small to register. The destroyer’s chances of detecting us will be slight.’ Juggling with his lips, Yashimoto swivelled the cheroot into a corner of his mouth, leant forward, the pouchy eyes bright. ‘Whereas,’ he went on, ‘our chances of sighting the destroyer will be excellent. We shall have chosen the moment — we will have the advantage of surprise.’ He drew on the cheroot, puffed whorls of blue smoke at the deckhead. ‘I intend to sink that destroyer as we leave Creek Island, Chief. The Imperial Japanese Navy will give the British a lesson in tactics.’

Satugawa regarded the thickset, aggressive figure of his Captain with admiring eyes. That is splendid news, sir. But one point you have not mentioned. Our sentries? Presumably we embark them shortly before leaving?’

Yashimoto’s expression was impassive. That would involve an unacceptable loss of time. We will not be able to recall them until after the warning signal from the headland lookout. To do so earlier would rob us of our eyes and ears at the most critical time. They will not be re-embarked, Chief. We shall have to manage without them.’

The Engineer Officer shrugged, his expression strained. ‘I suppose so,’ he said heavily.

Yashimoto’s mouth tightened. ‘It is war, Chief. No time for sentiment.’ He drew on the cheroot, exhaled whorls of blue smoke. Tell me. Do you believe that those flooding and pressure tests are absolutely essential? His dark eyes narrowed, bore into the Engineer Officer’s like twin gimlets.

Satugawa knew what the Captain wanted to hear. Loyally, he said it. ‘Not absolutely essential, Captain — but highly desirable. If we do not make deep dives — ’ he hesitated. There should not be problems?’

Yashimoto smiled. Thank you, Chief. That is what I hoped you’d say.’