Yashimoto's Last Dive

Five

What had promised to be a quiet night in the operations room at Navy House, Kilindini, was interrupted by a spate of incoming signals reporting Fort Nebraska's urgent transmission. The first of these came from the Fleet W/T Office. In no time several more had come in from HM ships at sea, plus two from the RAF, one from the Air Officer Commanding Kilindini, the other from the RAF flying boat base at Pamanzi in the Comoro Islands.

‘Here’s another, sir.’ A tall girl with flaxen hair handed the signal to the Staff Officer Operations, a Commander who sat at a desk on a platform overlooking the plotting table. She was one of two Wrens on duty in the operations room. ‘It’s from Restless,’ she added.

‘Thank you, Camilla. I’ve been waiting for this one. Restless is all we have within reasonable distance of Fort N's position.’ Commander Russel, balding and long of face, took the signal sheet, checked its time of origin, 2109, and read on:

Ian Russel, SOO to the Deputy C-in-C, Eastern Fleet, the Rear-Admiral responsible for the control and protection of merchant shipping between Durban and the Equator, passed the signal to a Lieutenant RNVR who appeared to be staring at something over Russel’s shoulder. ‘Put this on your plot, Jakes, and give me an ETA for Restless at the Fort Nebraska position.’

The Lieutenant’s attention at that moment had been diverted from the plotting-table by the statuesque figure of Camilla. It was, to him, quite the most shapely in the business. It looks, he was thinking, particularly good in tropical uniform, and would no doubt look even better without it. Abandoning the pleasant fantasy he took the signal and bent over the plotting-table. A few minutes later he had the answer. ‘If the current behaves as it should, I make Restless's ETA 0340 tomorrow, plus or minus five minutes.’ He looked up from the plot. ‘At twenty knots that’s about six and a half hours’ steaming time.’

The SOO shook his head. ‘The party’ll be over long before that. Pity he can’t put on more than twenty. Problem must be fuel remaining.’ Commander Russel, not the most cheerful of men, tugged at the lobe of his right ear, a gesture known in the operations room to indicate anxiety.

Jakes nodded. ‘Has to be that, sir. Long passage from Simonstown, plus extra steaming to and from that convoy shambles off Lourengo Marques, plus chasing around like a blue…’he hesitated, coughed.‘Chasing around afterwards looking for the Catalina south of the Comores.’

The SOO moved a hand to the lobe of his left ear. ‘Yes. Well, we’ve nothing available nearer Fort N so Barratt’ll have to do what he can. The U-boat will long since have gone, but he should be able to pick up survivors.’ The SOO went back to his desk, sat for a moment with his head in his hands before looking across to the Wren Petty Officer at the signal desk. ‘Pam — make a signal to Restless, repeated Captain (D) and RAF (HQ): Your 2109 approved stop. Message ends.’

The Wren finished writing, read back the signal. ‘To be encyphered, sir?’

‘No. Plain language. Gives away nothing. Get it off right away.’

The SOO flicked a finger at Jakes. It was a gesture which demanded attention. ‘This U-boat or U-boats. Must be the same bunch that attacked the convoy on the 16th, 17th. Probably the Gruppe Eisbar operating off Lourengo Marques. Evidently shifting their activities further north.’ He made a steeple with the fingers of both hands, blew gently through it. ‘Some time since they’ve come to this end of the channel.’

Jakes, who hadn’t really been listening all that hard, stopped transmitting private signals to Camilla. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said. Feeling that something more was necessary, he went on. ‘These unaccompanied sailings present easy targets. I wonder we still permit them.’

The SOO nodded gloomily, several times, while he considered Jakes’s remark. Did it imply criticism of authority? Was the we an indication of collective responsibility? Deciding that it was, he said, ‘I’ve no doubt the Admiral will want to discuss that tomorrow.’ He put his hands over his eyes, breathed wearily as if tired by the prospect.

Commander Russel longed for the war to end so that he might return to Naivasha where he had farmed since 1927, the year in which he’d retired from the Royal Navy as a lieutenant. Called up on the outbreak of war, he’d spent a year at sea in an armed merchant cruiser before being appointed to the naval staff in Kilindini. Like all retired officers in the Royal Navy who returned to wartime service he was known as a ‘dugout’. Something of a pessimist, he was referred to behind his back as Gloomy Russel.

But for snatched visits to the surface to refill his lungs, Corrigan spent the next ten minutes under water. In this time he had worked his way steadily down-moon in order to get away from anything floating and to hide from the submarine. As long as it was up-moon its lookouts were unlikely to see him.

Because of the swell, and because he did no more than raise his mouth and nose to the surface, he was unable to see the submarine but occasionally the beams of its searchlight swept the water near him and at those times he had gone deeper. When it was near the woosh-woosh of its propellers grew in volume. Later, when their frequency quickened, he knew that speed had been increased; when they grew fainter and yet still fainter he assumed the submarine was leaving the scene. Only then did he risk returning to the hand-float.

The top of the wooden frame had been raked by gunfire, the planking partly splintered, some of it hanging over the side. But the buoyancy chamber must have escaped damage for the float remained at its usual height above the surface. Holding on to a lifeline he lifted his head clear of the water and saw the submarine. It was some distance away, still up-moon from him, turning in a wide circle to the west. It must have been going fast because before long it had left the silver path of the moon and was lost in the darkness.

The sound of threshing water broke the surrounding silence. It came from where the huddled bodies lay on the sea. His first thought was that there were, after all, others like him who had somehow evaded the slaughter. But then not far away, where phosphorescent splashes played in the moonlight, he saw dark fins moving among the sagging corpses. Despite the warm water he shivered involuntarily. I better get busy quick, he told himself. Get away from here. Could be a long time before I’m picked up. If I’m picked up.

With the sheath-knife he cut through the float’s lifelines, took an end and secured it round his waist. Turning on to his stomach he began a slow breast stroke, towing the float, his legs and arms underwater to avoid splashing, his target the rope-bin he’d passed on his journey down-moon.

It was some time before the bin showed up, its staves protruding above the surface of the sea. Thank God for the moon, he thought.

He wasn’t tired. The tropical water, warm and buoyant, was kind to the body. But the threshing noises were uncomfortably close and he knew he hadn’t much time. The bin was one of several used for stowing mooring ropes. Circular in shape it was a big, cage-like tub. The tops of some of the staves had been shattered and broken. Bullet hits, he supposed.

He had to get the sodden rope out of the bin. He began by drawing the hand-float against it and tying a lifeline to a stave beneath a cross member. The float would give more buoyancy to the bin and offset his own weight. He climbed in on top of the rope coil and felt the bin tip away from the side where the float was. He fumbled for the bight spliced into the end of the rope, found it and began to pay the rope over the side into the water.

It was a slow business. The seven-inch coir normally had a buoyancy of its own, but it was waterlogged now and heavy. He had no idea how long the task took. At times he stopped to rest aching arms. After what seemed a long struggle he was down to the last few layers of the coil, and finally to the end itself. With a breathless, ‘Christ, I thought you’d never come,’ he threw it over the side. Free of the weight of the rope the sides of the bin had risen higher above the surface but the planked bottom was still under water. Leaning over the staves he released the lifeline, lifted the float inboard and secured it to the bottom of the crate by its lifeline.

The clouds drifted over the break in the sky, shutting out the stars and the moon, and he found himself in complete darkness sitting on the float in the centre of the rope-bin. Not far away the splashing noises continued but he felt secure inside the wooden cage, the warm water lapping the lower reaches of his body. There was nothing to do now but wait. Thinking again of the slaughter he’d so recently witnessed, a cold anger possessed him.

Satisfied that no one in the water could have survived, Yashimoto gave the order to cease fire. Toshida passed the word to the men on the casing. Taking their weapons with them they moved in an orderly file to the gun-hatch, climbed into it and disappeared below. As they went Yashimoto heard snatches in low voices mixed with muted laughter. Normally he would have dealt severely with such indiscipline, but they were young men and their excitement in the circumstances was understandable. They had been in a fight with the enemy. Several of their messmates had been casualties — one had been killed. In any event there were more important matters on his mind. Matters that had to be dealt with immediately. First of these was to move away. He ordered speed to be increased to sixteen knots and gave the Coxswain a nor-nor-westerly course to steer. This would take I-357 away from the scene of the sinking and closer in to the East African coast.

When he’d steadied the submarine on the new course he turned to the Engineer Officer who had come to the bridge to report. Satugawa said he had examined the shell damage while the survivors were being dealt with. The damage to the main pressure hull and to the conning-tower walls could be repaired but the submarine would have to be in sheltered water. The repairs to the damaged lid and coaming of the lower hatch would be a more complicated operation, involving much time even if continuous shifts were worked. He was not able at that stage to say exactly how long. Possibly three or four days. A lot of improvisation would be necessary in the absence of shore assistance. ‘In a neutral port it could soon be done,’ he suggested hopefully.

‘That is out of the question.’ Yashimoto shook his head. ‘It would mean internment. The end of the War for this boat and everyone in her.’

‘Once the repairs are completed we can dive again, but…’ Satugawa hesitated, looked past Yashimoto’s shoulders as if somewhere out there in the night lay the solution to their problems.

‘But what Chief?’ prompted Yashimoto. The moon had gone and he was checking the darkness ahead, his back to the Engineer Officer.

‘It would not then be advisable to go deep again, Captain.’

Yashimoto swung round. ‘Why?’

‘There would be patched-up holes and fractures, fatigued metal. It would be dangerous to subject them to high pressures.’

‘How deep would we be able to dive?’

Satugawa hesitated, frowning at his thoughts. ‘At most thirty to forty metres, Captain.’

Yashimoto made a long face, hunched his shoulders. ‘Well — so long as we can dive. That’s the vital requirement.’ There was silence after that while he considered what the Engineer Officer had told him. That the repairs would take some time was desperate though not unexpected news. Daylight would come in about nine hours. It would be followed by the enemy’s air reconnaisance. Fort Nebraska’s brief transmission was an SSSS message. It would have given her position. Such transmissions by merchantmen were well known to the Japanese submarine service. British naval headquarters in Kilindini, more than four hundred miles to the north, would now be planning a search and rescue operation. What they did not know, however, was that I-357 could not dive.

They would assume one of two things: the submarine responsible might have left the area travelling on the surface at high speed, heading out into the deeper waters of the Mozambique Channel to get as far away from the scene as possible before making the dawn dive; their second but less likely assumption would be that the submarine had remained in the area of the sinking in order to attack any vessel, naval or otherwise, which responded to the SSSS message. These thoughts had been in his mind since the moment he’d known the extent of damage caused by the Liberty ship’s shell. Now that he’d had time to consider the implications of what had happened a plan of action was suggesting itself. But it would be necessary to work at the chart-table before coming to a decision — and he would have to work fast.

Turning back to the Engineer Officer he said, ‘Carry on below, Chief. Make all preparations for the repairs. Assume that we will be in sheltered water.’

Knowing the Captain better than any other member of I-357’s crew, and respecting him, Satugawa refrained from asking questions. Of one thing he was certain. Yashimoto would make the right decision. He always did. Saying, ‘I’ll do that, sir,’ he left the bridge.

Yashimoto called the control-room by voice-pipe. The First Lieutenant answered. ‘Captain, sir?’

‘Inform the Chief Telegraphist that strict wireless silence is to be observed. Listening watch only. Hydrophone and search receiver operators to be especially vigilant. When you have passed these orders, come to the bridge.’

The First Lieutenant came up and the Captain gave him the submarine’s course and speed. ‘Take over the bridge now,’ he said. ‘I shan’t be long. Make sure that the lookouts are on their toes.’ With a last scan of the black wall of night round I-357, he lowered himself into the conning-tower.

Yashimoto stepped off the ladder on to the deck of the control-room and bumped into a seaman kneeling at its foot. There was a bucket of water beside him.

The Captain growled. ‘What d’you think you’re doing?’ ‘Mopping up blood, sir.’

The Captain looked down, saw the red lights of the control-room reflected in the dark pool at his feet. He’d forgotten about the casualties. Well, there was no time to worry about them now. He went across to the chart-table, conscious of the eyes which followed him, the gaunt expressions of inquiry on bearded young faces. After the comparative silence of the bridge the control-room was noisy with the clatter of the diesels. The Navigating Officer moved aside to make room at the chart-table. He had been entering details of the gun-action in the War Diary.

Yashimoto said, ‘Leave that now, Sato. There are more urgent matters to attend to.’ He looked at the chart on the table, Lourengo Marques to Mogadiscio.

‘Where is the large scale chart for this section of the coast?’

‘Underneath that one, sir. Our DR position is on it.’ Yashimoto grunted, pulled clear the chart he wanted, placed it uppermost and switched on the shielded light. From the position Sato had plotted he saw that they were eighteen miles to the east of the Mozambique coast, abeam of Ilha Matemo, one of a chain of small islands which ran parallel to the coast from Porto Amelia in the south to Cabo Delgado in the north, a distance of 135 miles. In the main the islands were close inshore with scattered reefs and shoals abounding in the few navigable passages between them.

Yashimoto worked fast and with complete absorption, for there was little time in which to do all that had to be done. To the Navigating Officer, standing silent at his side, there was something feverish in the Captain’s activity; the way in which that formidable man snatched up dividers to measure distances, hurriedly jotted down figures, muttered enigmatically, constantly switching his attention from the chart to the volume of Sailing Directions.

The time was 2132, the sun would rise at 0520; that left Yashimoto with eight hours in which to conceal I-357 from the air search which would begin at daylight. He was not long in making his decisions. He would use, at most, four of the eight hours of darkness left to find a small island, preferably wooded and uninhabited and with enough deep water to manoeuvre close in to its lee on the landward side. This would conceal the submarine from prying eyes to seaward, and give shelter from the prevailing north-easterly monsoon. There would also be the advantage of lying in the shadow of the island when the sun rose. That would make her less conspicuous from the air during the early hours of daylight. Before then the crew would have to carry out the project he had in mind. It was a formidable one.

Close study of the chart and Sailing Directions had persuaded him to concentrate on what looked like the loneliest part of a lonely coast; the twenty-five miles between the islands of Medjumbi and Tambuzi. Little mauve blobs printed against those names indicated the presence of light beacons. They would be invaluable navigational aids. In the twenty-five miles he proposed to explore there were a number of islands from five to twelve miles offshore; the shoals, coral reefs and others navigational hazards on their landward side were sufficiently numerous to daunt searching warships. And he was encouraged by what he’d read in the Sailing Directions: references to mangrove-lined beaches and creeks — Ilha Medjumbi was wooded, with some tall trees — Ilha Mionge, a thickly wooded islet some seventy feet high in places. Surely he would find what he wanted somewhere among those islands.

The distance to Medjumbi was thirty-three miles — about two hours’ steaming at sixteen knots. Once past it, he would tackle the little islets, taking the submarine up through the inshore passages on their landward side.

In an immensely difficult situation he was aware of one potent factor in his favour — the action had taken place off the Mozambique coast. Fort Nebraska had been sunk about a hundred miles south of Cabo Delgado; twenty miles north of that cape lay the mouth of the Rovuma River, the boundary between Tanganyika and Mozambique: the former a British colony, the latter Portuguese.

British aircraft and warships could not attack I-357 in Portuguese territory without flouting the International Convention and offending their oldest ally, a still most useful and friendly one notwithstanding her nominal neutrality. It was fortunate, he reflected, that the British were respecters of international conventions.

The risk he ran using Portuguese territory was internment of the submarine and its crew, but that was far less serious than losing them to enemy action. The repairs would take three or four days. If air reconnaissance found I-357 during that time, the British would exert diplomatic pressure on the Portuguese Government to ensure internment. The only way to prevent that was to hide I-357.

Having determined from the chart the course to steer, the Captain picked up the phone to the engineroom. An ERA answered.

Tell the Engineer Officer to come to the bridge immediately,’ said Yashimoto. He hung up the phone, told the Navigating Officer to follow him, and made for the conning-tower ladder.