Yashimoto's Last Dive

Thirty-one

Restless was in station off the mouth of the creek when a rocket burst over Maji Island and released a parachute flare. Since the shore party had none the First Lieutenant knew it must have been fired by the Japanese. Coming not long after sheet lightning had lit up the creek, he assumed they were either checking on Restless's movements or, more likely, on something suspicious in the creek.

At the briefing it had been agreed that the destroyer should be ready to create a diversion from 0330 onwards by shelling the headlands.

The whistle for the kick-off,’ Barratt had said, ‘will be the explosion of our depth-charge. If you hear general action ashore before then, get stuck in right away. Concentrate your fire on the mouth of the creek. It’s got to look like covering fire for a landing party. The idea is to take the Japs’ eye off the ball.’

Hamilton checked the time with Peter Dodds — it was 0342, but still no depth-charge explosion. Restless's crew had been at action stations since 0320. With his binoculars trained on the flare-lit creek, he said, ‘Tell Guns to keep his finger on the trigger. I think the balloon’s about to go up.’

Dodds was passing the message to the Gunnery Officer in the control-tower when the sound of firing came from the creek. The first flare petered out and a second rocket burst high above. Its flare had begun to descend when heavy rifle and machine-gun fire, grenade explosions and other sounds of action erupted suddenly beyond the bluff which shut off the view from seaward.

The First Lieutenant at once gave the order to open fire. Restless's formidable barrage started up, the crack and flash of her guns, the acrid smell of cordite, the ship shaking from concussion, all combining in violent harmony. The response from the creek was quick, two Very lights arc-ing into the sky above the western headland. Seconds passed; Restless's radar operator reported a small contact moving fast down the creek, its range opening. The cold white beam of the destroyer’s searchlight settled on a catamaran making towards the bluff, a white squirt of foam at its stern. Had he not feared it might be crewed by islanders, Hamilton would have ordered its sinking. Instead he phoned Lawson in the control-tower. ‘Hurry it along, Guns, but don’t sink it,’ he said.

Restless's pom-poms barked into action, fountains of silvered water leaping and sparkling astern of the scurrying catamaran which began a wild zig-zag. Down in the creek the night sky glowed in hues of orange and yellow, flame and smoke rising above the bluff from the hidden inferno.

Before long the tempo of action ashore slowed to no more than occasional bursts of machine-gun and rifle fire. The First Lieutenant was saying, ‘I wonder what the devil has happened to that depth-charge?’ when his question was answered by the muffled boom of an underwater explosion. The top of a great column of water leapt into the air above the bluff, its texture reflecting the light of the fire beneath it.

‘Thank the Lord for that,’ said the First Lieutenant. ‘I was afraid something had gone badly wrong.’

‘You’ve got to hand it to the Old Man.’ The Navigating Officer’s voice was nervous and edgy with emotion.

‘Bloody marvellous.’ The First Lieutenant lowered the binoculars. ‘I thought his plan was crazy. But by God it seems to have worked.’ He went to the compass platform, gave the order to cease-fire. The destroyer’s guns fell silent, and he conned the ship round in a wide circle to regain position off the headlands.

When Barratt raised his head above water for the second time he saw in the light from the fire that they’d got the rig within ten feet of the submarine’s stern. Mindful of rifle fire he took a quick gulp of air before ducking under. Totally obsessed with getting the rig into position, he was only dimly aware of Corrigan going up to breathe. Seconds later the American had ducked under and was alongside him again, the rig’s forward progress responding to the powerful shove of the younger man. Looking through the few inches of water above them, Barratt saw the orange glow in the sky and his mind registered that the fire had come too soon. He supposed the shots from the submarine had triggered the action. The fire was meant to happen after the depth-charge had exploded, not before. The light it cast was a menace but nothing could be done about that, and they were close enough now. He tapped Corrigan’s shoulder twice. The American returned the taps in acknowledgement. With the rig now almost under the submarine’s stern they broke surface. Keeping low in the water Barratt reached up, felt for the air vent lever, attempted to depress it, but it wouldn’t move. To exert greater pressure he pulled himself higher out of the water, pushed down on the lever with both hands. There was still no movement.

‘It’s jammed,’ he shouted to Corrigan who pushed him aside, seized the lever and bore down on it. Strong as he was, the American failed to depress it. Vital seconds slipped by. Machine-gun and rifle fire began to splash around them. Barratt had realized it was coming from the shore opposite and not from the submarine when something delivered a violent blow on his back. He felt as if he’d been hit between the shoulder blades with a heavy instrument. He put his hand to the place, felt the broken flesh. No pain but his left arm had gone limp and unresponsive to any attempt to move it. He shouted to Corrigan, ‘Get to hell out of it. I’ll give you ninety seconds before I pull the Senhouse slip — that’ll sink the bloody thing…’ Before he could finish the sentence he had rolled over on his side, face downwards in the water. In the light of the flames Corrigan saw the crimson gash on the Captain’s back. He reached out, pulled the limp body towards him, saw the closed eyes, blood oozing from the open mouth. He’s dead, he decided, no way I can help him. He let the Captain’s body go, ducking involuntarily as bullets whined and splashed around him.

The Senhouse slip, he thought. There’s no other way. Christ Jesus give me strength. He took a deep breath, rolled on to his back underwater, raised an arm, ran a hand along the top of the buoyancy chamber until he felt the air vent lever. The Senhouse slip was just forward of it. His fingers found it, tried to slide the steel ring which held the tongue. It wouldn’t budge. Have to get higher in the goddam water, he told himself. He pulled himself up, slipped the clip free. The gripes securing the depth-charge to the buoyancy chamber fell away and the chamber, freed of its load, rose in the water.

Corrigan made for the bank, his arms flailing the water in a desperate crawl. In the few seconds of life left to him he had managed to cover almost fifteen feet when he was blown out of the water by the violence of the explosion.

When Morrow and his men got back to the rig’s launching site they took cover in the undergrowth. The fire on the submarine, burning less fiercely now, still cast enough light to show that I-357’s stern was underwater while her bows had lifted.

Morrow touched McGlashan’s shoulder. ‘Look. She’s down by the stern, TGM.’

McGlashan, kneeling beside him, said, ‘Aye, the depth-charge must have blown the stern trimming tanks. Flooded the motor-room and stokers’ mess, too, I’d dare say.’ The TGM’s tone suggested satisfaction with a job well done. ‘The rudder and propellers must be in poor shape. They will have taken the full force of the blast.’

‘Bloody good show,’ said Morrow. ‘Terrific.’ His voice changed, betrayed anxiety. ‘The Captain and Brad Corrigan should have shown up by now. Three minutes gone since the explosion.’

The sound of Restless's guns had ceased and for the first time since the action began there was little to be heard other than odd rifle shots, and the occasional rattle of machine-gun fire coming from the direction of the Japanese sentry post on the beach by the huts. ‘God knows what they’re firing at,’ said Morrow.

‘Each other, I’d say.’ McGlashan’s response was unemotional.

A rocket sizzled into the sky from the far side of the creek, burst at the top of its climb to release yet another flare. McGlashan swore softly. ‘Hope to Christ that doesn’t show up our swimmers.’

McLean said, ‘I’ll go back along the bank, Mr Morrow. Check if they’ve come ashore further back.’

‘Hold on for a moment, McLean. Let that flare die before you go.’

When it touched the water and spluttered out, the signalman left them.

McLean had not been long gone when yet another rocket soared into the sky; it burst and the parachute flare floated gently down. In the brilliance of its light Morrow and his men looked anxiously for some sign of the swimmers, but there was none. The flare settled in the water and the creek was again swallowed by a darkness relieved only by the subdued glow of ashes along I-357’s casing.

Morrow looked at his watch: six minutes gone and still no sign of them. Though he tried hard to believe that all was well, he had a feeling deep down that something had gone desperately wrong. At the briefing Barratt had stressed that no more than four minutes at most should be allowed for the return of the swimmers. ‘If we haven’t got back by then the rest of the party must get to hell out of it,’ he’d said. ‘The Japanese mustn’t be given time to mount a counter-attack. At the four minute mark get out double-quick and make for the pick-up point. That order is not to be disobeyed.’ He had stopped then to glare at Morrow. ‘The safe return of the attack force is a lot more important than attempts to rescue individual members who may have got into trouble. Is that understood?’

A general murmur of assent indicated that it was, and Barratt had gone on to the next item.

Four minutes — Morrow reminded himself — but six had already passed. Torn by anxiety, faced with an awful decision, he was wondering for how much longer he could ignore the Captain’s orders when McLean appeared out of the darkness. They’re dead, sir,’ was the signalman’s laconic report.

Morrow said, ‘Oh, God. Are you sure?’

‘Yes. Certain. I saw their bodies in the light of that last flare. Floating face downwards they were. Not far from each other. There were a lot of other bodies around. Jap bodies. The Captain had a bad wound. A big gash down the back. His body and Corrigan’s looked all broken up. Kind of out of shape.’

Morrow said, ‘Sure they weren’t Japs, McLean? I mean — how could you be certain on a dark night? Our people’s faces and bodies blackened — and all that?’

‘Quite sure,’ said McLean quietly. ‘The yellow armbands showed up in the light of the flare. Apart from anything else their hair was too long for them to be Japs.’

‘Christ!’ Morrow’s voice trembled. ‘How bloody awful.’ In the darkness McGlashan put his hand on the SubLieutenant’s shoulder. ‘It’s war, Mr Morrow,’ he said. ‘One Japanese submarine and God knows how many Japs…’ He hesitated. ‘…for the price of two of ours.’

In a businesslike voice McLean said, ‘Shall I fire the recall?’ Morrow said, ‘No point in hanging about, I suppose. Yes, do that.’

The signalman took a Very pistol from his belt, aimed it into the sky and fired twice. Two Very lights chased each other like green stars over the waters of the creek.