Yashimoto's Last Dive

Three

‘Perhaps you two could lower your voices.’ The thin man with the long face looked up from the book he was reading, frowned at the offenders.

‘Sorry. We were having a discussion.’ Galpin, the senior of Restless's two midshipmen, rubbed the side of his nose in a gesture of apology.

‘What you were having was a typical wardroom argument, not a discussion.’ The thin man tipped his heavily rimmed spectacles straight, glared at the midshipmen and began reading again.

‘How would you define a typical wardroom argument, sir?’ challenged the midshipman with red hair. The emphasis on sir was well calculated to irritate Surgeon Lieutenant Philip Kerr RNVR, generally known in HMS Restless as ‘Docker’, a corruption of his name and calling preferred by the wardroom to the more usual ‘Doc’.

‘Wild assertion followed by flat contradiction ending in personal abuse,’ came from a large man with a deep voice. Spreadeagled in an armchair, he had appeared to be asleep. ‘It’s not original but it will do.’ He looked at the wardroom clock. ‘Getting on for 2100. Shouldn’t you two be turning in instead of making a nuisance of yourselves? You’ve got watches to keep.’

The Doctor nodded. ‘Thank you, Number One. Most helpful.’

‘It’s a pleasure, Docker. Any time.’ The large man pulled himself up in the armchair. ‘Midshipmen belong in gunrooms. Destroyers don’t have gunrooms. So these young peasants have to come in here with their betters. Appalling really.’

Jeremy Tripp, the freckled, red-haired midshipman frowned. ‘Didn’t you do destroyer time when you were a mid, sir?’

‘Of course. But in those days midshipmen were rather different. Well disciplined, good mannered, quiet — and clean. We never argued.’ Sandy Hamilton, the First Lieutenant, looking older than his twenty-six years, put up a hand and yawned. ‘We were rather a splendid lot really.’

The clean struck home. Tropical kit, white shirt, shorts and stockings, was the rig of the day. Those worn by the midshipmen seemed rather more crumpled and grubby than the wardroom’s average. Tripp was thinking up an appropriate reply when there was a knock on the wardroom door. A Chief Petty Officer Telegraphist came in, clipboard in hand. He went to the First Lieutenant, passed him the board. ‘From SOO, Kilindini, sir.’

The First Lieutenant shook his head as he read the message. ‘My God, how absolutely typical. Flaming RAF. Well I suppose we can’t win ’em all.’ He initialled the message, passed the clipboard back to the Chief Petty Officer. ‘Thank you, Duckworth.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Captain not pleased, I imagine.’

Duckworth turned, hand on the wardroom door, nodded. ‘He didn’t look too happy, sir.’ Smiling, he closed the door behind him.

Hamilton ran a hand through a head of tousled hair, stood up, yawned again and stretched. ‘I’d better go to the bridge,’ he said to no one in particular. ‘See how the Old Man’s taking it.’

‘What is it then that the flying boys have been doing, Number One?’ The inquiry in a Welsh sing-song came from the Engineer Officer, Gareth Edwards, a slight, dark-eyed man, who was playing darts with Peter Morrow, an RNVR Sub-Lieutenant. Morrow, whose family farmed at Nakuru, beyond Lake Naivasha, had joined in Kilindini a few days before the ship left for Simonstown.

‘That Catalina we’ve been looking for got back to Kilindini at 1500. She wasn’t down at all. Her transmitter had gone

on the blink. Some chairborne aviator forgot to inform Navy House.’

‘Indeed, and it’s a lot of fuel then that we’ve been wasting.’

‘And time, Chiefy. About eight hours while we searched thousands of square miles of ruddy ocean.’ The First Lieutenant picked up his cap and made for the bridge.

HMS Restless of the 27th Destroyer Flotilla, Eastern Fleet, on passage to her base at Kilindini after a refit and boiler clean in Simonstown, had been diverted earlier in the day to search for an RAF Catalina reported down in the area south of the Comores, the islands in the Mozambique Channel which lay midway between the East African coast and Madagascar. The flying boat’s last known position had been one hundred and fifty miles SSW of Moheli Island. Starting from that position Restless had carried out a square search, from time to time expanding the area. But it had been a fruitless operation. On receipt of the W/T message announcing the safe return of the Catalina, Lieutenant Commander John Barratt, Captain of Restless, had put the destroyer back on course for Kilindini, some 400 miles to the north-west.

It was the second time since leaving Simonstown that the destroyer had been diverted. Several days earlier she had gone to the assistance of a south-bound convoy under attack by submarines between Durban and Lourengo Marques. With the corvettes escorting the convoy, Restless had carried out several depth-charge attacks on what seemed promising asdic contacts; but the depth of water was so great that it had been difficult to confirm a ‘kill’.

The First Lieutenant found the Captain in the chartroom with the Navigating Officer, Charlie Dodds, a Lieutenant RN whose persistent frown was not surprising in a young man who seldom stopped worrying.

Not sure of the Captain’s mood, the First Lieutenant began tentatively. ‘Too bad about the Catalina, sir?’

The lean, wiry figure of the Captain turned away from the chart-table. ‘Yes, it is.’ He stared past the First Lieutenant in an impersonal way. ‘I’ve given SOO our ETA as 2130 tomorrow. If it’s wrong, blame the Pilot. He did the sums.’

‘Only thing I’m not sure about is the current.’ Furrows gathered on the Navigating Officer’s forehead. ‘For most of today it’s been setting south at two-and-a-half knots. The ETA’s based on that.’

‘I’m going back to the bridge.’ Barratt spoke without looking at anyone. ‘Need some fresh air before getting my head down. It’s a hot night.’

The First Lieutenant nodded. ‘Yes it is, sir.’ He hesitated. ‘Be rather fun getting back to Kilindini, won’t it?’ The picture in his mind was that of Camilla, the attractive second officer Wren who did cypher duty in Navy House.

Staring at the younger man in a strange, absent-minded way, Barratt shrugged his shoulders and left the chartroom.

The First Lieutenant’s voice was apologetic. ‘I thought my Kilindini ploy might work.’

‘Bit soon isn’t it?’

‘I suppose so. Wish we could cheer him up. Incredible change though, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, but understandable. He only got the news six weeks ago. Give him a chance, poor chap. He has to adjust to things.’

‘Nothing seems to interest him these days, Pilot. Sometimes I get the impression that his mind is a million miles away. Difficult to get through to him.’

Dodds closed the book on the chart-table — Africa Pilot, Vol III, the Admiralty Sailing Directions — and replaced it on the bookshelf. He turned back to the First Lieutenant. ‘How does news get out of Changi, Number One?’

‘Haven’t a clue. I suppose the POWs operate some sort of grapevine. Can’t see the Japanese bothering to notify next-of-kin.’

‘No I can’t,’ agreed the Navigating Officer. ‘How long had they been married?’

‘About six months I think — that is, when Singapore fell. He never saw her after that.’ The First Lieutenant changed the subject. ‘Hot and muggy. We could do with another thunderstorm.’

The Navigating Officer was drawing the new course line on the chart. Over his shoulder he said, ‘That one this afternoon certainly cooled things down.’

At the point of alteration of course he drew a small circle, noting against it the time, 2049.

There was no moon to relieve the darkness but in the corridors between the clouds the southern sky was bright with stars. From the engineroom skylight came distant sounds, the rhythmic hum of turbines, the purr of ventilating fans and the dissonances of auxiliary machinery. To those on the bridge closer sounds were the splash and rustle of water along the sides, the metronomic ping from the asdic’s loudspeaker, and the occasional murmur of voices from the men on watch.

Barratt stood at the bridge screen looking into the night, his thoughts in another place, another time, another world: Singapore, the year before, on the terrace at Raffles. A night in some ways not unlike this, he thought; hot, humid, bright with stars, the muted strains of a dance band somewhere in the distance. The slight fair girl sitting beside him, eager and joyous with youth, a bubbling laugh never far away. ‘D’you really want to make an honest woman of me, John? Are you sure? With this War and everything?’

‘Yes. Absolutely sure. The War’s all the more reason. We won’t see much of each other, probably. Well — not for some time anyway. Better make the most of it now.’

She laughed. ‘You’ve only known me for three weeks. You’re thirty-five. I’m twenty-one. It’s completely mad.’ ‘Good to be mad,’ he said. ‘Your youth, my rugged old age. What a combination.’ That had sounded frivolous, so he’d added, ‘I love you, Caroline.’ He’d leant towards her, takemher hand and squeezed it. He’d wanted very much to kiss her, but disliked displays of emotion in public. Rather prudish about that, he was.

She’d pushed him away. Laughing, watching him closely, she’d said, ‘I’m told you were a bit wild when you were young. You got into awful scrapes, they say.’

‘Who’s they?’

She’d looked guilty. ‘Oh, somebody who was in the Navy with you in those days.’

‘Well, I think I’d describe it as having been a bit high-spirited. Not wild really. Anyway, don’t let’s discuss my past. Let’s do something about our present.’

It was then that she’d looked at him in a calculating way. ‘Were you ever married?’

‘No. Got near to it once and — well — that came to nothing. I was leading a pretty busy life and — you know — just didn’t get round to it. Then the War came.’

All that seemed to have happened a long time ago. Without memories, what was there left? Won’t see much of each other, probably. He’d not realized how prophetic that was to be. The thought evoked a long-drawn sigh of wretchedness. The signal from the Admiralty said she’d died of fever. What sort of fever? Malaria, enteric, yellow? Not that it made any difference. She was dead. He’d never see her again. Dead in Changi Gaol. What a foul place for anyone to die, let alone a girl like Caroline. Surrounded by those God-awful people with their cold-eyed militaristic dogma that permitted the most ferocious atrocities.

As so often when thinking of her death he had to tussle with confused emotions: feelings of guilt — but for him she might not have been there — of futility because he could do nothing about what had happened — nothing but fulminate and hate. In each hour of every night and day his mind was scourged by thoughts of Caroline. Thoughts of the indignities, the humiliations she must have endured; her loneliness and terror as the fever possessed her; the dreadful, suffering hours as she lay dying, surrounded by Japanese prison guards.

There was nobody with whom he could share his grief, nothing to look forward to, little point in going on with life; yet it was there and had to be lived, and at least the War might provide an opportunity for revenge. That his thoughts were entirely negative, he well knew. But he could not make them otherwise, they couldn’t be reasoned away, and that knowledge made things worse.

The discordant rasp of a buzzer sounding on the bridge brought him back to reality. Its urgent summons was followed by the voice of Lawson, the officer-of-the-watch, who was also the destroyer’s Gunnery Officer. ‘Bridge — W/T office.’ A pause, then, ‘Repeat that.’ Another pause, then, ‘Just, my course is — good. The bridge messenger will collect it.’ Lawson came over to Barratt at the bridge screen. ‘Captain, sir. W/T office reports an SSSS from a US merchant ship, Fort Nebraska. She gave her position at 2100 as twenty-two miles east-north-east of Porto do Ibo. The message ended with the words my course is — no more after that, sir. Messenger’s gone to collect it.’

Barratt came suddenly alive. ‘U-boat attack. Transmission interrupted. Poor devils. Steer twenty degrees to port. Revolutions for twenty knots. I’ll look at the chart. Tell the Pilot I want him up here double quick.’

Lawson was repeating the orders to the wheelhouse when the messenger arrived on the bridge with Fort Nebraska's signal.

The rhythmic hum of the turbines, the vibrations of the hull, the tumble and hiss of water along the sides increased in pitch as Barratt made his way to the bridge chart-table. He lifted the screen, switched on a light. First he plotted Fort Nebraska's position, then advanced Restless's for the five minutes since 2100. Drawing a line between them, he rolled the parallel rulers on to the compass rose, read off the course to steer — 290° — and measured the distance with dividers — 123 miles. He switched off the light, replaced the screen, moved towards the compass platform. ‘Steer 290 degrees,’ he called to Lawson.

The Navigating Officer arrived on the bridge. Barratt handed him the Fort Nebraska signal. ‘Submarine attack, Pilot. I make the course to her position 290 degrees, distance 123 miles. Haven’t allowed for current. Plot the scenario in the chartroom and give me a course to steer. Double quick.

After that draft a signal to SOO Kilindini reporting our receipt of the four S. Give her position and ours, and conclude with, ‘Proceeding to Fort Nebraska position. My course 290°, speed twenty knots. Got that, Pilot? Good. SOO will already have had the four S from the Fleet W/T office — and other ships at sea.’

‘Our speed only twenty knots, sir?’

‘Yes,’ snapped Barratt. ‘That’s all our fuel remaining will permit. Don’t forget we chased around looking for U-boats after that attack on the southbound convoy. Then the Catalina saga. You should know that, my boy. Now get on with it.’

With a breathless, ‘Yes, sir,’ Dodds made for the chart-room.

Barratt called to Lawson, ‘Number One on the bridge. Double quick.’

Double quick was Barratt’s variation on the theme of ‘at the double’. Midshipman Tripp had dubbed it The Old Man’s Signature Tune. The First Lieutenant disapproved. All orders were expected to be carried out at the double. It was not a Custom of the Service to emphasize the obvious. For Barratt, however, they suggested a greater sense of urgency. On this occasion they brought Sandy Hamilton to the bridge in just under sixty seconds. He was dripping, bare-footed and naked but for white shorts and a uniform cap. ‘Sorry about my rig, sir,’ he apologized. ‘I was in the shower.’

The Captain half smiled, became quickly serious. ‘We’ve just picked up a four S from a US merchant ship. Her signal was mutilated. We won’t reach the position given for another six hours, but make ready for picking up survivors. Scrambling nets, boathooks, blankets, etcetera. Warn the Doctor. He must put the sickbay on standby.’

‘I don’t expect we’ll make contact with the U-boat, sir?’ ‘Unlikely, I think. They usually move well clear of a sinking. But if the CO’s brave and greedy — and most of these German U-boat commanders are — he may hang around hoping to make a target of whatever comes along to pick up survivors. We’ll see.’

‘D’you think it’s the U-boats we tangled with the other day? The Gruppe Eisbar lot operating off Lourengo Marques?’

T imagine so. Having stirred things between Durban and L.M. they may well have decided to move into the Mozambique Channel.’

Barratt looked at his watch. Five minutes had elapsed since Fort Nebraska's transmission. What other ships and shore stations had picked it up? That reminded him it was time Dodds was back with the draft of the signal to SOO.

As if his thoughts had somehow triggered a response, the phone buzzed. It was the Navigating Officer. ‘Course to steer 293 degrees, sir. That allows for a southerly set of two knots. I’ve drafted the signal to SOO.’

‘Right, I’ll come down.’ Barratt hung up the phone, told Lawson to steer 293°, and went to the chartroom.