Yashimoto's Last Dive

Twenty-nine

Barratt went to the bridge after the watches had changed at midnight to find it wet and glistening from earlier rain. A clouded sky and distant lightning promised more. The weather continued to come from the north-east, the wind at times gusting to Force 6, building up a moderate sea, Rest-less's bows throwing up sheets of spray each time her patrol line took her into the wind.

‘Any sign of action ashore?’ Barratt asked the officer-of-the-watch.

‘None, sir. We’ve exposed a light several times. On each occasion for about ten seconds when the ship was opposite the entrance to the creek.’ He lowered the night-glasses he was using. ‘Once we blew off steam. With this wind I’m sure they heard us. But there’s been no reaction.’

Barratt said, ‘Good. That’s what we want.’ He went across to the starboard side of the bridge, stood with his hands on the coaming staring into the darkness, thinking of the coming hours. The attempt he’d made at rest had been hopeless. Far too tense for that, his mind too occupied, he’d soon given up. He imagined that others in the shore party were having the same difficulty. Rest and the immediate prospect of action were not easy bedfellows. It was good to be back on the bridge where things were happening. He checked a mental list of things to be done. He’d have a final session with the Torpedo Officer, get that side of things sorted out. Then another chat with Morrow and Aba Said. There were several more questions he had to ask the African. That would take him through to around 0100 when he’d go to his cabin, blacken his face and body, and put on the few garments he’d be wearing: the bathing trunks under dungaree trousers, dark socks, ink-dyed canvas shoes and the webbing belt to hold the.38 revolver and the fighting knife. All that would have taken about forty minutes. Then he’d come back to the bridge, have a quick re-check of the drill for the night with the First Lieutenant — after that, standby for the landing.

For a moment his thoughts wandered in a confusion of emotions: foreboding, awareness of danger, of bloody action. But none were so powerful as the overriding determination for revenge.

When Restless had gone to the assistance of the southbound convoy he had attacked what was thought to be a German U-boat. But his emotions then and his emotions now were worlds apart; intense dislike for the Germans, coupled with respect for the skill and bravery of their U-boat commanders, bore no relation to what he felt about the Japanese. Nor did the methods of attack: the convoy battle had involved the usual asdic hunt, the dropping of depth-charges on a remote, unseen enemy represented by no more than a ping on the bridge speaker and a purple trace on the plotting-table.

The attack on I-357 would be the antithesis of that. He would see the Japanese submarine at close range, it would be a hand-to-hand affair, a visible killing and maiming, the ultimate in revenge.

Aware that his thoughts had wandered, that time was short, he went to the chartroom. There he found Dodds working on the tide-tables. After they’d discussed tides for the night, Barratt said, ‘I’d like you to relieve Taylor for about twenty minutes. Tell him I want him here.’

Shortly afterwards the Torpedo Officer appeared. ‘You sent for me, sir?’

‘Yes, Torps. I’d like to run through the rig drill once more. I know Corrigan and I had a dummy run with you this afternoon, but I want to make sure I fully understand the nuts and bolts of the flooding arrangements. Don’t want anything to go wrong, particularly at the assembly and launching stages.’

‘You’ll have the TGM with you for those, sir. McGlashan is the specialist. He designed the rig. Supervised its construction from the ground up.’

‘The ground up presumably being my rough sketch,’ Barratt remarked drily.

The Torpedo Officer’s smile was apologetic. ‘Yes, of course, sir. That sketch was the ground work.’ He went on. ‘The rig’s really very simple and straightforward now. The engineroom staff have welded a longitudinal bulkhead into the DC drum. One half contains the Amatol charge, the other is free-flooding on launching. One of the two buoyancy drums has been cut in half and welded to the other, so their flooding now is done by a single bung with a topside vent to release displaced air. You can check the flooding at any time by shutting the vent.’

For some time after that they discussed the changes in the structure of the rig and the effect they would have on assembling, flooding and slipping. When they’d finished Barratt patted Taylor’s shoulder. ‘I must congratulate you and the TGM. You’ve done a splendid job. All that’s necessary now is to put it to good use.’

The Torpedo Officer looked pleased. ‘I’ve no doubt you’ll do that, sir. I only wish I was coming with you.’

‘You’re needed on board, Taylor. The ship can’t do without you and the TGM.’

In the early hours of morning Barratt turned Restless away from the southern end of the patrol line and brought her round in a broad sweep to sheltered water in the lee of Maji Island. About a mile south of the beach on which the landing was to be made he ordered slow astern together and, when the destroyer had all but lost way, stop engines. Having given orders for the motorboat and skimmer to be lowered into the water, he handed over command to the First Lieutenant. There was a minimum of formality. ‘She’s all yours, Number One,’ he said. ‘See you at the pick-up point at 0415 or thereabouts. God bless you and the best of luck.’

In the dim light of the compass binnacle Hamilton could see the whites of the Captain’s teeth and eyes in the otherwise blackened face. ‘Good luck, sir,’ he said, an unfamiliar tremor in his voice. They shook hands, Barratt adjusted his webbing belt, checked the revolver and fighting knife it held. With a final, ‘So long,’ he went down to the waist where the shore party was mustering.

The embarkation took place without lights in total darkness. Although Restless was downwind of the island Barratt had stressed the importance of silence, so orders were given and difficulties discussed in subdued voices. To his concern these factors slowed the pace of embarkation and tried a temper already strained by tension. When the Coxswain reported that a rifle being handed down to the skimmer had been lost over the side, Barratt exploded. ‘For God’s sake, which bloody idiot was responsible?’

‘Couldn’t rightly tell in the dark, sir.’

‘It was me, sir,’ came in an undertone from a dark shape near Barratt who recognized the voice as that of a leading seaman, a man well liked on the seaman’s messdeck. Barratt, who thought much of him and was already regretting his outburst, said, ‘Never mind. We won’t charge it to you, Johnson. Have another rifle put in the skimmer double quick, Coxswain.’

‘Already done, sir,’ said the Coxswain. ‘I had spare equipment mustered in case of accidents.’

That incident out of the way, the embarkation continued. The five men of the beach party under the command of Lieutenant Weeks were in the skimmer with the rig, while the attack party of twelve men, including Peter Morrow and Aba Said, were with Barratt in the motorboat which was to take the skimmer in tow since the latter’s outboard engine was too noisy for the landing operation. It would be used only on re-embarkation of the shore party or, if necessary, in an emergency.

Though to Barratt the time seemed a great deal longer, the motorboat bore off from the destroyer’s side less than twelve minutes after embarkation had begun. Moving away with its tow at low speed it was soon lost to sight in the darkness.

The landing place chosen on the advice of Aba Said was a small beach on the southern side of the island. It had been selected for its tactical advantages; from Aba Said’s information, confirmed by what Barratt and McLean had seen on the previous night, it seemed that the Japanese defences were based upon the possibility of an attack by a vessel entering the creek from seaward on the northern side of the island. The beach chosen had an added advantage; in a direct line, it was no more than five hundred yards from where the submarine lay. Because the creek was surrounded by a horseshoe of hills the distance to be covered by the attack party was considerably longer, involving as it did a climb and descent over rough, bush-covered terrain.

On this point, particularly, Said’s advice had been invaluable. T have been to the beach many times,’ he told Peter Morrow. ‘The journey over the hill will take about twenty minutes. There is a rough track, but it is not easy to follow, especially in the dark. You say your men will be carrying heavy things, Bwana. In that case the journey must take longer.’

It was on this assessment that Barratt in his planning had allowed forty minutes for the journey from the beach, over the hill and down through the forest to the creek.

Piloted by Aba Said, who had fished the waters round Maji Island for at least fifteen of his twenty-one years, the motorboat and its tow reached the beach twenty minutes after leaving Restless. How the African found it on a black dark night was an unsolved mystery to Barratt who assumed it was a combination of night vision and instinct which the ordinary mortal didn’t possess. Whatever it was, the white patch of beach showed up ahead soon after the African’s warning to Morrow, ‘We must go slow now, Bwana.’ The motorboat’s engine was throttled back, de-clutched and put astern. The bowman, sounding with a boathook, called out, ‘Shelving fast, sir.’ Seconds later the bows touched and disembarkation began. Once the motorboat had discharged its load, the bows of the skimmer were hauled up on the sand and unloading of the rig and other equipment took place. When this had been done the skimmer was again taken in tow by the motorboat which backed away in the darkness. Both craft were to lie off the beach until the return of the attack party. At the briefing Barratt had given the time of that return as 0400, stressing that it was no more than an approximation.

For the members of the shore party the journey to the beach had been an eerie one especially for the majority who had not landed the night before. Grouped together in the darkness, in silence, unable to see, each man’s mind filled with thoughts of what the next hour might bring, was an experience which tested the nerves of the toughest.

Once on the beach and able to move again, much of the tension went as they got busy with their various tasks. Most important of these was the placing of the rig units in the carrier. This was done by the TGM, Petty Officer McGlashan, and the rig’s crew. Working without lights of any sort meant that everything had to be done by touch; and in silence but for occasional whispers.

First the wooden carrier was laid in the sand. Much like a rigid, six-by-three foot stretcher, the projecting ends of its longitudinal and cross members provided handgrips for the six men who would carry the 200 lb load. Lengths of rope looped between the timber shafts formed the bed on which the parts of the rig were laid; the unprimed depth-charge, behind it the buoyancy drum, and last the canvas gripes to be used when the rig was launched. While McGlashan and his men were busy, others in the attack party were checking weapons and equipment. Some had service rifles or revolvers, a few had Sten guns, most had hand-grenades attached to their belts, and others bulging rucksacks over their shoulders. Every man had a fighting knife in his belt.

At thirty-seven minutes past two o’clock — seven minutes behind Barratt’s operational schedule — the attack party began to leave the beach. The pathfinders, Peter Morrow and Aba Said, led, followed by McLean and Carmichael. Barratt and Corrigan came next, the rig and its bearers immediately behind them. The rear was brought up by the TGM and Bob Stanley, a sickbay attendant who carried first-aid equipment.

The rain had stopped some time before they landed on the beach but there was still no break in the clouds, and the attack party climbed up the hillside in darkness, remaining in close order so that contact was not lost. Aba Said moved with the stealthy assurance of a bloodhound following a well-scented trail, pausing at times to peer into the night, touching the undergrowth as if its feel might carry clues. Occasionally he would stop, thrust his head forward and cup his hands behind his ears.

The stony track up which he took them wound its way through thick undergrowth where insects buzzed in protest as the rig carriers pushed it aside to make room for their load. At times there was the sound of a man stumbling, at others the crack of tinder breaking underfoot; occasionally the flap and screech of a startled bird would create alarm, but for the most part the only sounds were the scuff of feet, the wheeze of heavy breathing, and in the background the constant murmur of the sea. The low cloud ceiling intensified the night’s heat, and the sour sweet smell of sweat hovered over the climbing men. At times when the going got steep McGlashan and Stanley would lend a hand with the rig, lightening the load for its carriers.

At the top of the hill they halted for a five minute rest, something Barratt had promised at the briefing. ‘Don’t forget,’ he’d said, ‘you may be short of puff when you reach the top, but a five minute rest will put that right. The descent should be a piece of cake.’

While they rested he moved among the men encouraging, advising, checking on their problems and patting backs for work well done. ‘But the worst is over. The load will seem a lot lighter going down. And don’t forget,’ he laughed, ‘it’s strictly one way freight.’ To all he again stressed the importance of silence. ‘The nearer the target the greater the need,’ was his whispered reminder. As he’d expected, the attack party’s morale was high, their humour good and in spite of the unwelcome attention of swarms of mosquitoes, and undergrowth scratches on bare limbs, there were no complaints.

In a whispered conversation Morrow asked Aba Said how he had been able to follow the track so surely in the darkness.

‘Bwana, for many years of my life I have used the path,’ said the African. ‘In the rocks by the beach where we landed there is good food in the sea shells. But since the Japanese arrived our people are not allowed to come to that beach.’

The luminous dial of Barratt’s wrist watch showed 0302 when the rest period ended and the attack party began the descent led by Aba Said and Morrow, the others following in the order in which they’d climbed. They had not gone far when away to the north the horizon was illuminated by a sheet of lightning. Off the mainland guarding the entrance to the creek the dark silhouette of a destroyer had shown up momentarily against the brilliantly lit skyline. To Barratt and others who’d seen it, the sight of their ship, the reminder that they were not alone, was comforting.

Stars began to glitter through a break in the clouds and he cursed quietly. The last thing he wanted was a clear sky, particularly as the moon, risen at midnight, was still behind cloud. For the attack party’s purposes the longer it remained there the better. The wind had backed north from north-east where the storm clouds had been gathering before darkness fell. He prayed that it would continue to mass them over the island.

The file of men threading their way down through the trees came to a halt. Aba Said went through his listening motions, head forward, peering into the darkness. ‘Listen, Bwana,’ he warned. ‘We are close to the water now. No more than fifty paces.’

Morrow listened, straining his faculties until he too could hear the faint murmur of water ahead. ‘Where is the submarine, Aba Said?’

The African took his arm, aimed it left. ‘That way, Bwana. About two hundred paces. The catamarans lie this side, behind the stern. Along the creek the mangroves are high. We must go towards the catamarans before it is possible to reach the water. There is a sentry at that place. He watches the catamarans.’

‘Stay here, Aba Said,’ Morrow replied. ‘I will tell the Bwana M’Kubwa of these things.’ He went back to where Barratt waited, gave him the news. The Captain hesitated before saying, ‘Go ahead with Aba Said and McLean. Get McLean to deal with the sentry. Let me know when he has.’ Barratt’s tone was matter of fact, as if he were giving an order on Restless's bridge.

Morrow disappeared into the night.

The three men went on in silence, keeping to the bank above the tangle of mangroves which lined the creek. At times they would stop to listen, only to hear the lapping of water, until they were closer to the catamarans when the subdued hum of machinery came from somewhere ahead. They moved warily, testing the ground underfoot with tentative steps before applying the weight of their bodies. They’d not gone far when the sound of a man coughing stopped them. Aba Said crept forward, leading the way down the bank through a break in the mangroves. For the first time they saw the water, its ruffled surface reflecting a slit of stars. Following the African’s example they knelt behind the undergrowth which fringed the upper side of the bank. From their left came the sound of approaching footsteps. The scuff of feet came nearer, passed on, and they saw the dark shape of a man against the starlit water. He halted a short distance away. McLean whispered, ‘You and Aba stay here.’

Crouching on all fours, McLean followed the line of the undergrowth. A short distance on he stopped, took the fighting knife from its sheath and a.303 cartridge from his ammunition belt.

The footsteps sounded again, this time coming back along the bank. Soon the bulk of a man showed against the water. He was walking slowly, a rifle slung over his shoulder. McLean, rigid as a stalking cat, threw the cartridge far out into the water. At the sound of its splash the sentry stopped, stared into the creek, his rifle at the ready. McLean inched forward, came up behind the motionless figure. He was close enough to hear the man’s breathing when he leapt and struck, twisting the serrated blade of the fighting knife, sinking it deep into the sentry’s neck, the rasping noise of steel against gristle and bone deadened by the gasping sigh.