Yashimoto's Last Dive

Two

Yashimoto took I-357 to periscope depth at 1930. After a thorough check of the screen of darkness around the submarine, and assurances from the hydrophone operator that there were no propeller noises, he ordered, ‘Down periscope — surface.’

The First Lieutenant gave the surfacing orders, the lower hatch was opened by a petty officer, and Yashimoto climbed up the conning-tower ladders, followed by the lookouts.

He eased the safety clips on the upper hatch. When the noise of seas buffeting the bridge ceased, he released the clips, pressure within the submarine then forcing the hatch lid open. Hauling himself clear of the conning-tower he stepped on to the bridge where the last vestiges of sea water were still draining away. Savouring the fresh night air, so welcome after the stale atmosphere below with its odours of diesel, battery gas, human bodies and decaying food, he and the lookouts began probing the darkness with binoculars. Behind the periscope standards the search aerial was turning in its perpetual vigil. Satisfied that all was well, Yashimoto gave the order for the diesels to be started. Charging of the batteries began, air compressors were switched on, and he gave the order for normal patrol routine. It was his custom at night to remain on the bridge with the officer-of-the-watch for the first hour after surfacing; he did this, too, for the hour before the dawn dive.

The sea was calm, its surface still only ruffled by the offshore breeze. Under an overcast sky I-357 slipped through the water at twelve knots, her bows dipping and rising to the undulations of the south-easterly swell. To the officer-of-the-watch, Lieutenant Toshida, the Captain appeared to be in unusually good spirits, certainly more communicative than he had been for some time.

For his part Yashimoto was pleased with the weather, for if the sky remained overcast it boded well for the night; moreover he was glad of the company of Toshida, his Gunnery Officer, a zealous and capable young man for whom he had a high regard. Having remarked that the darkness of the night was accentuated by the banks of cloud which obscured most of the normally starlit southern sky, Yashimoto added, Time of moonrise, Lieutenant?’

‘2034, sir.’

‘Good. Possibly the clouds will hide it.’

‘Yes, sir,’ replied Toshida quietly. One did not disagree with the Captain, even if one had doubts. Not that Toshida had. He disliked the moon, but his thoughts at that moment happened to be in Matsuyama, on the shores of the Inland Sea. There his wife was expecting their first child. It might already have arrived. Boy or girl? Had it been a safe delivery? Was she well? He would not know until I-357 reached Penang. The uncertainty troubled him. Once more he raised his binoculars in the endless search.

The voice-pipe buzzer sounded. It was the chief telegraphist, Petty Officer Keda, reporting the receipt of a signal from Penang. The Navigating Officer was, he said, putting it through the cypher machine.

Yashimoto at once announced that he would go down to the control-room.

The signal from the Flag Officer Submarines, Penang, brought such a pronounced wrinkle to the Captain’s forehead that men in the control-room wondered what it was about, particularly when he went to the chart-table with Lieutenant Sato, opened the folio drawer, took from it a fresh chart and placed it over the one already on the table.

The Penang signal informed Yashimoto that a damaged British aircraft carrier with two escorting destroyers had passed through the Suez Canal on passage to Durban for refit and repairs. The carrier and its escorts would call at Mombasa to refuel on the journey south, arriving there some time on November 26/27. I-357 and I-362 were to take station off that port not later than midnight on November 25. The chief telegraphist had not yet heard I-362 acknowledge the signal, reported the Navigating Officer.

Yashimoto looked up from the chart-table, the doubt in his narrowed eyes underlined by dark pouches beneath them. ‘That is bad news, Lieutenant. Coming on top of I-362’s continued failure to report since the convoy attack. Well, this is war. But we shall carry out the attack.’

The Navigating Officer’s ‘Yes, sir’ was unenthusiastic. He had a considerable respect for British destroyers after their recent encounter. Closing his mind to that unpleasant recollection he listened instead to the Captain thinking aloud as he worked on the chart with dividers and a slide rule. ‘Distance to Mombasa 485 miles. At twelve knots surfaced and six submerged we make good 216 miles in twenty-four hours. So passage to Mombasa will be fifty-four hours. It is now 2015 on November 20. We have time in hand.’ He had worked on I-357’s economical speeds. The big 1600-ton submarine was capable of twenty-one knots on the surface and nine knots submerged.

‘Current, sir? The…’ began Sato.

‘I am aware of the current,’ interrupted Yashimoto with a slight show of annoyance. ‘Three knots south-going in the Mozambique Channel. But there is often a counter-current inshore.’

‘Yes, sir. Of course.’ Sato was now apologetic. ‘I only mentioned the current because…’

‘Because you thought I’d forgotten it.’ Yashimoto looked up from the chart, bared his teeth at the young Lieutenant in a humourless smile. ‘Inshore is where I intend to go.’

The Captain’s aggressive intentions were mirrored by the outward thrust of his lower lip. ‘Alter course twenty-five degrees to port. Let me know when we’re within five miles of the land. Then give me a course for Cape Delgado.’ Yashimoto turned away from the chart-table, looked round the control-room and nodded briefly to the men near him before making his way to the conning-tower ladder. There, he found Lieutenant Torago Nangi, the Torpedo Officer, who had taken over from Toshida when the watches changed at 2000.

In the north-west there were distant flashes of lightning, followed by faint rumbles of thunder. These did not concern Yashimoto unduly as he looked into the darkness. Indeed, thinking about the Penang signal, his earlier sense of wellbeing became one of near elation. Having disposed of the problem of Ichiro Noguchi in more senses than one, and being free of worry on that account, he was able to give his mind wholeheartedly to what lay ahead. Not only was I-357 homeward bound, but the Penang signal had banished any fear that she might not find a target before reaching her base.

There was certainly a target now — only five days away — and what a target. An aircraft carrier, the dream of every submarine commander. The escort? Two destroyers? Pity about I-362, thought Yashimoto. That could have made things easier. But an arrogant sense of self-sufficiency brushed the difficulty aside. Earlier in the year, off the Marshall Islands, he had sunk an American destroyer and seriously damaged the heavy cruiser it was escorting in company with another destroyer. That attack had been carried out by I-357 operating alone. He was more than ready to meet the new challenge. It was fortunate, he reminded himself, that I-357 had six torpedoes remaining. Since leaving Penang the expenditure of torpedoes in relation to sinkings had been high, but in a number of instances this had been due to faulty running, technical failures in the weapons themselves. His thoughts went on. There was deep water outside the entrance to Kilindini, the port of Mombasa. That would be in I-357’s favour. The enemy’s time of arrival off the port was an important factor. If it were during the hours of darkness, so much the better. He preferred a night action. There would be two opportunities for attack, the arrival of the carrier and its escorts and their departure. If conditions did not favour the former he could fall back on the latter. That might in any event be advisable since, on the enemy’s arrival, he would have observed the carrier’s course when approaching the port. If there was a British minefield she and her escorts would keep to the swept channel.

He was busy with these tactical problems when the voice-pipe buzzer sounded.

‘Hydrophone cabinet — bridge. Propeller noises on sector red three zero to four zero, sir. Range five thousand yards. Single screw. Slow revolutions. Closing slowly.’ It was the operator on watch reporting from the hydrophone cabinet.

Yashimoto’s mind worked fast. Two and a half nautical miles, it told him. Range closing slowly with I-357 doing twelve knots. So they were overtaking a northbound vessel. Single screw. Slow revolutions. A merchant ship.

He called the control-room. The First Lieutenant answered. ‘Pass the word for action standby,’ Yashimoto’s voice had hardened. ‘Surface action. Have the gun’s crew ready. Tell Lieutenant Toshida I want him up here.’

Yashimoto had not used the action-alarm for fear that its raucous clamour might carry down wind to the target. For the same reason he frowned at the sounds of unusual activity which drifted up through the conning-tower as men below hurried to their stations. Toshida arrived on the bridge, followed by the Coxswain who took over the upper steering position. Yashimoto had already altered course to put the target vessel directly ahead.

In the control-room the Navigating Officer recorded the time in the action log — 2031.

During the next twenty minutes the thunderstorm in the north-west drew nearer, and the range of the ship ahead dropped steadily. By the time it was down to two thousand yards, reports from the hydrophone operator confirmed Yashimoto’s belief that the target was a merchant ship. Making good ten knots, it was on course for Cape Delgado, ninety-five miles distant.

The voice-pipe buzzed urgently. ‘Still no radar emissions, sir.’ Hasumu’s report indicated that the vessel ahead, like most merchant ships at that stage of the war, had no radar.

I-357’s stealthy approach from astern on a dark night could only be detected visually. What was not good was the storm. The closer it came, the more likely it was that lightning flashes might reveal the presence of the submarine. For that reason a submerged attack would have been better. Yashimoto, however, had no intention of using his remaining torpedoes on a merchant ship; their target would be the aircraft carrier. The ship ahead had to be sunk by gunfire. The sooner the better.

He called the hydrophone cabinet. ‘Range now?’

‘Twelve hundred yards, sir.’ It was the voice of the chief operator who had taken over.

Yashimoto spoke to the First Lieutenant by voice-pipe. ‘Gun action stations,’ he commanded. Soon afterwards the gun-hatch below the foreside of the bridge opened and the crew of I-357’s four-inch moved silently to their stations on the forward platform.

To no one’s surprise, for he had excellent night vision, it was Yashimoto who first saw the blurred shape ahead at about the time the hydrophone operator reported the range to be five hundred yards. ‘I see it,’ the Captain exclaimed to the Gunnery Officer beside him. ‘It’s dead ahead. Open fire when the range is down to three hundred yards. Aim at the wireless cabin. It’s abaft the funnel. We don’t want them transmitting an SSSS signal. After that go for their stern gun.’ SSSS was the emergency code for attacked by submarine.

Toshida passed the range and bearing to the gun’s crew. ‘Standby for the order to open fire,’ he said. ‘When I give it, aim abaft the funnel. Knock out that wireless cabin.’

To the Captain he said, ‘I’ve got it, sir. Can’t make out any detail. Just a vague shape.’ He spoke without lowering his binoculars.

A flash of sheet lightning revealed for an instant the lumbering bulk of a cargo steamer ahead, smoke pouring from its funnel. In that brief glimpse those on the submarine’s bridge saw no signs of life round the freighter’s stern gun. A rumble of thunder was followed by large, single drops of rain which began to beat a wet tattoo on the bridge.

‘Liberty ship,’ snapped Yashimoto.

‘Range three five zero, sir,’ came from the hydrophone cabinet. There was thinly concealed excitement in the operator’s voice.

Yashimoto touched the Gunnery Officer’s arm. ‘Range three five zero. Open fire when you’re ready.’ He swore softly as the rain began to fall more heavily, misting the lenses of his binoculars. Another sheet of lightning was followed by a roll of thunder. It seemed to those on the bridge that a long time elapsed before Toshida’s voice broke the silence with the long expected order to open fire.

The flash and report of the four-inch gun sounded mute and inadequate after the more violent manifestations of the storm. With the shell whining its way across the water Yashimoto waited, tense, keyed up, watching the dim shape ahead as best he could through rain-streaked binoculars. A faint white plume in the darkness marked the shell’s fall short of the target. Three more rounds were fired before a burst of flame erupted from the midships superstructure of the Liberty ship.

‘Get more hits abaft the funnel,’ demanded Yashimoto. ‘Then knock out the stern gun.’ He spoke into the voice-pipe. ‘Revolutions for eight knots.’ Turning to the Coxswain he said, ‘Steer twenty degrees to starboard.’

Though the gunnery of defensively armed merchant ships was notoriously indifferent, and a trimmed-down submarine a difficult target, especially at night, Yashimoto had no intention of getting too close. With the range under 300 yards and still closing, he brought I-357’s bows round to starboard, reducing speed to maintain distance from the enemy ship. It had become a more visible target now, the shell having started a fire amidships. With the submarine falling off to starboard the barrel of its four-inch gun swung to port, holding the steamer steady in the gun-sight; this was happening so swiftly that within less than a minute of the first hit three more rounds had been fired, the first splashing to starboard of the freighter, the next two exploding on the superstructure abaft the funnel. A new sound broke into the night; the shrill hiss of escaping steam. A white plume, illuminated by the light from the fire, reached up from the Liberty ship’s funnel.

Lightning flashed once again and for the first time men could be seen round the freighter’s gun, its barrel trained on the submarine. ‘Shift target to stern-gun.’ Yashimoto’s shout was urgent. There was a clap of thunder, rain sluiced down, and in that moment an orange flash came from the enemy’s gun. A shell screeched towards I-357 and splashed into the sea beyond. ‘Port twenty,’ shouted Yashimoto. It was vital to present a smaller target.

The submarine’s sudden alteration of course, immediately after the unexpected arrival of the freighter’s shell, combined to confuse I-357’s gun-crew, their next two rounds falling well astern of the target. Toshida’s shouted corrections were drowned by another shell splash, this time raising a column of white water just short of I-357’s turning bows. It required several more rounds from the submarine before one exploded on the Liberty ship’s stern in a vivid sheet of flame. Despite the light from the fire amidships it was too dark to see what damage had been done, though it was soon evident that the stern gun had been silenced. The submarine’s last alteration of course having brought her out on the steamer’s port quarter, Yashimoto increased speed and altered course to starboard. The clatter of the diesels grew louder, the vibrations more pronounced and, as speed built up sheets of phosphorescent water thrown up by the submarine’s bows glittered brightly in the darkness. Yashimoto had increased speed in order to reach quickly a position from which the Liberty ship’s waterline would present an easy target. He was watching her through misted binoculars when the lightning came again. The barrel of her stern gun was still pointing to starboard, whereas I-357 was now on the ship’s port side. But he had seen something else in the brief moment of illumination, something which made him slap his thigh in sudden exaltation: around the enemy’s gun lay the prone bodies of its gun-crew; near them a jagged shell-hole showed in the steel screen at the base of the gun-platform. He shouted down to the gun’s crew. ‘Well done. You’ve taught those gum-chewing amateurs a lesson.’

A lamp began to wink from the Liberty ship’s bridge.

‘Answer them, Yeoman,’ commanded Yashimoto.

Takamori, the Yeoman of Signals, trained a signal lamp on the blinking light across the water, clicked out the international signal for proceed with your message.

The distant light began its reply.

While this exchange was taking place, Yashimoto ordered revolutions for eight knots and altered to starboard, so reducing the range and putting the submarine on a course parallel with the Liberty ship’s.

‘Standby to open fire again when I give the word,’ he warned Toshida. ‘Aim for the waterline. Five or six rounds should sink her.’

The Gunnery Officer passed the order to the gun’s crew who had kept the four-inch trained on the enemy ship throughout I-357’s manoeuvring.

Moving slowly to the south-east, the thunder and lightning continued unabated though the rain had ceased. Clad in cotton shorts and singlets the men on the bridge and gun-platform were drenched, but the night was humid and sultry and the air temperature still in the high-seventies. To be wet was no discomfort.

‘See that, sir?’ Toshida’s voice was urgent. In the light of the flames amidships the Liberty ship could be seen to be lowering a lifeboat.

Yashimoto called to the Yeoman, still busy with the signal lamp. ‘What’s he saying, Takamori?’ he demanded irritably. ‘We haven’t time to stay here talking.’

‘I cannot read him, sir,’ complained the Yeoman. ‘He signals badly — and in English.’

‘Then forget him. No doubt trying to tell us he’s abandoning ship.’

Toshida said, ‘Yes. The ship has almost stopped.’

‘Typical,’ said Yashimoto. ‘These western people fight in a contemptible fashion. Shoot to kill you until they know they have lost. Then they surrender. To save their wretched skins. They do not understand the way of the warrior.’

‘You are right, sir.’ Toshida was thinking that the dissertation was a long one for the Captain. ‘They talk of their God in Heaven, but they do not seem anxious to meet him.’ Yashimoto grunted assent. ‘Good. Enough time has been wasted. Now we set course for Mombasa.’ With a snort of derision, he added, ‘You’ll see real action there.’ He raised his binoculars again. ‘Open fire, Toshida.’

The gunlayer’s task was easier now at almost point blank range and with the hull amidships lit up by flickers of firelight. I-357’s gun flashed and banged and as if by magic a hole appeared in the freighter’s hull a few feet above the water. In less than a minute successive rounds had ripped a series of gashes along the waterline. The heavily laden ship began to list to port.

‘Put a couple of rounds into the bridgehouse,’ said Yashimoto. He bent to the voice-pipe. ‘The enemy is on fire amidships and sinking,’ he told the First Lieutenant. ‘We will move off now. The flames may attract attention. Revolutions for sixteen knots.’

The First Lieutenant repeated the order. Yashimoto was giving a helm order to the Coxswain when the distant crack of a gun was followed by the rising whine of an incoming shell. A blinding flash of light beneath the conning-tower was accompanied by an explosion which rocked the bridge. Toshida, the Yeoman and a lookout were thrown off their feet. Yashimoto’s cry of, ‘My God! What was that?’ was overtaken by muffled screams from the control-room.

In the faint reflection of light from the Liberty ship’s fire one of I-357’s bridge lookouts, a young ordinary seaman, could be seen pointing to the stern of the enemy. ‘They fired at us, sir,’ he complained, in much the same tone as a child might have said, ‘They threw a stone at me, miss.’