Yashimoto's Last Dive

One

The clouds obscured the moon and for that he was thankful; it was no friend to a submarine running on the surface. As it was, the darkness was broken by no more than tumbling flashes of phosphorescence along the sides as I-357’s bows sliced through the sea. The only sounds of the night were the mechanical clatter of diesels, occasional squeaks from the revolving aerial abaft the periscope standards, and the splash and swish of broken water. Whatever conversation there might have been earlier, there was none now that the Captain had come up. Taciturn, crop-haired, bearded like the rest of the crew, Commander Togo Yashimoto was a strict disciplinarian whose views were well known: the survival of I-357 and all who served in her hung upon a slender thread of vigilance; conversation unrelated to duty diminished vigilance; for these reasons it was, as he emphasized in his standing order book, a most serious breach of discipline.

A breeze off the land did something to relieve the torpor of the night, bringing with it the musky, spice-laden odours of tropical Africa. To Yashimoto the smell was a pleasant one, redolent of the Straits of Malacca, waters he knew well, for the submarine was based on Penang, four and a half thousand miles to the north-east. Unless the unforeseen happened, he hoped to be back there by mid-December. That was a little less than a month away. Penang promised several weeks of unbroken nights, freedom from the stress of danger, regular baths, daily shaves, clean clothes, good food and drink with fresh fruit and vegetables, the company of brother officers of his own seniority, and the comfort of Masna’s warm thighs, her pleasant chatter and other tender attentions. There would, too, be letters; mostly from his wife in Kure with family news. Indeed, there was much to look forward to. Pleasant as these thoughts were they were soon displaced by others of a graver nature. They concerned a problem which had nagged at him for days. And now as he settled his forearms on the bridge screen to steady the binoculars with which he searched the darkness, the problem once again began to fill his mind. Before dealing with it, however, there was a matter of routine to be attended to.

‘Time of sunrise?’ he asked, without lowering the binoculars. Fitted with high-resolution night lenses they were standard issue for the Japanese submarine service.

‘0526, sir,’ replied the officer who stood beside him on the bridge. Ito Kagumi was not only officer-of-the-watch but I-357’s First Lieutenant. Ichiro Noguchi, the Acting SubLieutenant on watch with him, had twitched involuntarily at the Captain’s question. It was a trap; Yashimoto would have known the time of sunrise before reaching the bridge. The times of setting and rising of the sun and moon were shown on a slate above the chart-table. Lieutenant Sato, the Navigating Officer, chalked them up each morning before going on watch. Yashimoto never failed to look at the chart and slate before coming to the bridge. Nor did he ever fail to make this ritual check with the officer-of-the-watch. And woe betide any who got it wrong. Noguchi had done so on the first few days of the patrol.

‘Submarines dive at dawn,’ Yashimoto had barked, the frozen stare terrifying the unfortunate Noguchi. ‘They dive because daylight is an even greater danger than incompetent officers. To know the time of sunrise is essential to survival.’ The Captain’s short, thickset body had stiffened, the lower lip jutting aggressively. ‘You will therefore, at noon each day, for the next three weeks, give me in writing the times of rising and setting of the sun and moon.’

Yashimoto lowered his binoculars and moved towards the after end of the conning-tower, checking as he went that the lookouts had their night glasses trained on the sectors allocated to them. He felt his way past the periscope standards, reached the anti-aircraft gun-platform abaft the conning-tower, steadied himself against its guardrail and searched astern with binoculars. His mind was not so much concerned with what might be out there in the darkness, as with the problem he had tussled with over the last few days.

The more he thought about it the more certain he became that there was only one solution. Outbursts of hysteria in the control-room could under exceptional circumstances be tolerated, though they were bad for morale and threatened the safety of the submarine. But hysteria while I-357 was under attack, coupled with physical interference with men carrying out their duties at the controls, was an offence of the gravest nature. The young reservist, fresh out of Tokyo University, should never have been drafted into the submarine service; nor would he have been, reflected Yashi-moto, but for the influence of an uncle, a rear-admiral, who had distinguished himself in submarines.

Yashimoto was a career officer steeped in the samurai tradition, the son and grandson of naval officers, all men of the samurai caste. In 1905 his father had fought at the Battle of Tsushima Strait, the greatest sea engagement in the history of naval warfare. In that battle the Japanese Fleet, commanded by Admiral Togo, had sunk six of the eight Russian battleships, captured two, and sunk or captured most of the remaining ships of the Russian Fleet. This for the loss of three Japanese torpedo boats. Against more than 11,000 Russians, killed or captured, the Japanese had lost 117 men. Yashimoto’s father had served on Admiral Togo’s staff at Tsushima and had in due course given his son the prestigious first name of Togo.

Yashimoto’s upbringing and naval training had been dominated by this background. Bushido, the way of the warrior, had been evolved by the samurai: loyalty, honour, discipline, were the foundations of the warrior code, one which had been fundamental to Japanese naval tradition since the days of the Shimazu warships of the seventeenth century.

Standing by the guardrail with these thoughts in mind, he decided that, for the honour of the Imperial Japanese Navy, for his own honour, and no less for that of the guilty man, he must bring the matter to a conclusion. For him it had been a painful surprise that the offender had shown himself to be no samurai; it was the failure of the young man to commit seppuku, the implicit admission that he lacked the courage to purge dishonour with that ritual act of dis-embowelment, which had created Yashimoto’s problem. He sighed, shook his head, looked at the luminous dial of his wristwatch. The first pale shades of dawn were showing in the eastern sky. It was time to return to the bridge. On reaching it he spoke to Kagumi.

‘We’ll be diving in ten minutes. Carry on below. I’ll take her down.’

With a brief, ‘Yes, sir,’ the First Lieutenant lowered himself into the hatch and descended the conning-tower ladder.

Yashimoto put down the binoculars with which he’d been examining the still dark horizon. Turning to Noguchi he said, ‘Time of sunrise, Sub-Lieutenant?’

‘0526, sir.’

‘Good.’ Yashimoto nodded approvingly, paused. ‘I was on the A A gun-platform a moment ago. There is something knocking against the hull, aft on the port side. Not loud. Possibly a piece of rope or wire caught in a vent. The light is getting stronger. Go along the casing and check. We’ll be diving soon so look smart about it.’ In a more kindly tone he added, ‘Keep a hand on the guardwire as you go. We don’t want a man overboard.’

Noguchi had replied with a submissive, ‘Yes, sir.’ He made his way aft, past the periscope standards, on to the A A gun-platform and down the ladder to the steel casing. With a hand on the guardwire, he moved cautiously towards the stern. He disliked going out on the casing at any time. It always seemed dangerous to him, even when the sea was as smooth as it was now. So he walked slowly, apprehensively, along the steel casing, the bulging ballast tanks beneath him shining wetly in the half light, the sea lapping and gurgling along their tops. He passed the engineroom, the vibrations of the diesels now stronger, reached the after end of the casing and stopped. With one hand on the guardwire stanchion, he leant over the port side. There was nothing to be seen projecting from the vents, nor could he hear the knocking sound the Captain had complained of.

Still kneeling, anxious not to give the Captain the impression that he had skimped the job, he heard the raucous blare of the klaxon.

He jumped up, slipped, but still holding the stanchion pulled himself to his feet and in the faint light of early morning stared in dismay at the distant blur of the conning-tower. It was only seconds since the klaxon had begun to sound but the sharp hiss of air from the vents as the ballast tanks flooded, the cessation of noise and vibration from the diesels as the electric motors took over, and the increasingly bows-down angle of I-357 brought home to him the reality of what was happening.

Terrified, he began a frenzied scramble for the conning-tower, screaming, ‘Wait! Wait!’ as he went. He reached the ladder to the AA gun-platform, clawed his way up it, the sea foaming and splashing at his feet. Still screaming, he made a rush for the conning-tower hatch between the periscope standards. With awful disbelief he saw that the upper lid was already shut. He was hammering with his fists on its solid top when seas flooding the bridge carried him away.

Soon after Noguchi embarked on his journey along the casing Yashimoto had moved to the foreside of the bridge, put his binoculars to his eyes and begun once again to search the fading darkness. His sudden exclamation of surprise was followed by an urgent, ‘Listen.’ He gestured towards the port bow. ‘Aircraft,’ he shouted suddenly, pressing the klaxon button for a crash dive and ordering the lookouts to clear the bridge. With the speed and precision of long practice they dropped into the upper hatch and scrambled down the conning-tower ladders. Having shut the voice-pipes Yashimoto followed, slamming to the upper hatch above his head and ramming home the safety clips before going down the ladder into the control-room. The forward hydroplanes were already pulling the bows down, the rate of dive increasing, the ballast tanks flooding, the sharp hiss of air escaping from them masking other sounds.

‘Shut the lower hatch,’ he ordered as he landed on the control-room deck. ‘Take her down to seventy-five metres.’

‘Seventy-five metres,’ repeated the First Lieutenant from his station behind the planesmen. Though his eyes were on the clicking needles of the depth gauges he was wondering why I-357’s search receiver had failed to detect the aircraft.

Yashimoto picked up the phone to the engineroom. It was answered by the Chief Engineer Officer, Susuma Satugawa.

‘Air attack.’ Yashimoto’s voice was sharp. ‘Shut off for depth-charging.’ He replaced the phone, knowing that his cryptic order would suffice for both the engineroom and those in the control-room, among them the Yeoman of Signals who at once passed the message to the men in the fore- and after-ends.

The thud of heavy watertight doors closing was magnified by the relative silence which had followed the shutting down of the diesels and the switch to electric motors. It was broken now by the First Lieutenant’s report. ‘Seventy-five metres, sir.’

‘Hold her there. Silent running. Revolutions for two knots. Steer zero-eight-five.’ Yashimoto’s voice was calm, unemotional. That was something the crew found reassuring. They were, with few exceptions, young men for whom strong leadership was of special significance.

In I-357 ventilating and air conditioning fans were switched off, the only sounds the faint hum of electric motors at low speed, the subdued voices of men giving and acknowledging orders, and the whirr and click of instruments. The bows-down angle of the dive gave way to a level trim; at two knots the planesmen were just able to hold the trim. The new course, 085°, was ninety degrees to starboard of that which the submarine had been steering before the dive.

The First Lieutenant knew that Yashimoto had ordered silent running in case the aircraft dropped a sonar buoy. The Americans had begun using them in the Pacific. Perhaps the

RAF flying boats based on Kilindini already had them.

Yashimoto leant against the conning-tower ladder, alert but apparently relaxed, a comforting figure to those in the cramped confines of the control-room with its maze of pipes, valves, controls and labyrinth of instruments, a technological Aladdin’s cave where dim red lights cast strange shadows on tense, unshaven faces which constantly glanced upwards, listening fearfully for the splash of depth-charges striking the surface before sinking towards I-357 as she moved slowly through the darkness of deep water.

Yashimoto knew what his men were thinking — that at any moment there would be violent explosions which would buffet the submarine with massive blows, rocking the control-room, splintering light bulbs and gauge glasses, water spurting from fractured pipes, short-circuited cables flashing and crackling, the sulphurous smell of burning insulation compounding the ever-present stench of diesel oil; the terrifying noise and chaos of a depth-charge attack like the one they’d experienced a few days before. But as seconds became minutes, and minutes more minutes, nothing happened and gaunt expressions of fear gave way to grins of relief, to eyes which exchanged unspoken messages of congratulation.

At last the Captain broke the silence. ‘They could not have sighted us. The crash dive was well executed. I heard the aircraft to port, flying low it seemed. It must have been the morning reconnaissance from Pamanzi or Kilindini.’

Two ratings who had been on bridge lookout when the klaxon sounded exchanged imperceptible shakes of the head. They had not heard the aircraft.

Nor had Yashimoto, for the good reason that there had not been one. The only sound he had heard was a faint scream from the AA gun-platform as he shut the upper hatch.

The unspoken question in many minds was voiced at last by the First Lieutenant. ‘Ichiro Noguchi, Captain?’

Yashimoto bowed, gestured solemnly with his hands. ‘He was on the after-casing, investigating a peculiar knocking I had heard earlier. When the crash dive came he did not reach the upper hatch.’ Yashimoto spoke without emotion, his face impassive. ‘He chose the way of honour.’

The First Lieutenant’s eyes fixed the Captain’s. ‘It is better so, Captain.’

To those in the control-room who had so recently witnessed Noguchi’s disgrace, his end had come as no surprise.

Before long I-357 was back on her northbound course, making good six knots at a depth of twenty-five metres since there was still insufficient light for periscope observations. Watch-diving routine had been resumed and most of the men off watch had taken to their bunks.

In his cabin — it was a small affair with little more than a bunk, a desk, a diminutive settee, and a washbasin with jugged water — Yashimoto was drafting a brief report on the loss overboard of Acting Sub-Lieutenant Noguchi. Not only would it form an entry in the submarine’s logbook but when I-357 reached Penang he intended sending a copy to Rear-Admiral Noguchi, the sub-lieutenant’s uncle. He would send it to the Admiral under cover of a personal letter, conveying his most sincere condolences and extolling the officer-like qualities of Ichiro Noguchi, one-time philosophy student at the University of Tokyo.

For these reasons he was attentive to detail in composing the entry. It was important that it should read well. Having completed the task he made his obeisances before the small Shinto shrine mounted on the forward bulkhead of his cabin, commending the soul of Noguchi to the good offices of his ancestors.

It had been an uneventful day: no sightings on the various occasions that I-357 had come to periscope depth, no reports from the hydrophone operators of propeller noises or echoes, nothing but the rhythmic hum of the electric motors, the whirr of ventilating fans and at times the voices of men. In late afternoon, having rested, Yashimoto went to the chart-table where the submarine’s position was plotted at hourly intervals. With dividers he measured off the distance covered since the 1700 position. The submarine’s course of 355° ran parallel to the Mozambique coast, distant on average some twenty-five miles to port apart from a string of small islands which lay several miles offshore.

For several reasons he had chosen to keep within reasonable distance of the land rather than well out in the broad reaches of the Mozambique Channel. There was plenty of deep water along the coast, much of it 2000 metres and more, merchant ships tended to stay inshore because the British believed it made them safer from submarine attack and, most importantly, the light at Cape Delgado, close on 100 miles ahead, was a focal point for both north and southbound shipping. Running on the surface, I-357 would be off Cape Delgado soon after midnight; Yashimoto had hopes of a target thereabouts, preferably a vessel sailing alone. He was not anxious to tangle again with an escorted convoy. I-357’s recent encounter with one had very nearly ended in disaster; as it was he feared that I-362 might have been lost, for her commanding officer, Lieutenant Commander Suzuki, had made no report since that action. I-362 had been placed under Yashimoto’s command when they left Penang with orders to attack merchant shipping in the Mozambique Channel.

Earlier in the year Rear-Admiral Ishikazi, with five boats of the 8th Submarine Flotilla, had carried out a highly successful operation in the Mozambique Channel, sinking over 120,000 tons of merchant shipping and crippling the British battleship Ramillies. But, as Yashimoto well knew, conditions in the Channel were now very different. Ishikazi had enjoyed the advantage of two armed supply ships, of enemy merchant ships sailing unaccompanied, and the virtual absence of enemy destroyers and other anti-submarine forces, notably aircraft. Yashimoto, with only two submarines under his command, no supply ships and a base plus or minus 5000 miles away, had to operate against well-escorted convoys, patrolling destroyers, and constant surveillance from the air. And since few ships now sailed unaccompanied, easy targets were difficult to find. Yashimoto, a keen and efficient naval officer, found it hard to accept that during the seven weeks since leaving base his two submarines had sunk only four vessels, one of these a coaster off the Chagos islands, on the long outward passage from Penang. Thus the Mozambique operation had yielded only three sinkings so far, no more than 17,000 tons, and I-357 was already homeward bound.

Looking at the slate above the chart-table he saw that sunset was at 1806, moonrise 2034; the clock next to it showed 1801. There was little twilight in the tropics, for the darkness of night soon followed the setting of the sun. The last time I-357 had been at periscope depth Yashimoto had seen storm clouds in the north-western sky. That was where the weather came from. It might be a dark night despite the moon. He decided to surface at about 1930.