Yashimoto's Last Dive

Six

On reaching the bridge Yashimoto gave the Coxswain the new course to steer and ordered the Navigating Officer to take over the watch from the First Lieutenant. ‘Keep a sharp eye on the lookouts,’ he said. ‘This hot weather can make them careless.’ He had scarcely finished speaking when a dark shape came to the front of the bridge. ‘Captain, sir. You sent for me.’ It was the Engineer Officer.

‘Good. I want a word with you and the First Lieutenant.’ Followed by the two officers, Yashimoto led the way past the periscope standards to the after gun-platform. Feeling his way in the darkness he touched the twin barrels of the A A gun. They were still hot from recent firing. He waited until Kagumi and Satugawa were close to him before breaking the silence. ‘First I must tell you what is to happen before daylight. Then you will get your orders.’ He explained where I-357 was heading, what he was looking for, and the steps to be taken to conceal the submarine. He spoke fast, a staccato of clipped sentences, his voice raised against the noise of the diesels. When the Captain had finished Satugawa was the first to speak. ‘Repairs are not possible until the boat is stopped and in sheltered water. So it is good to have your news, Captain.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Yashimoto. ‘But I hope you will not now require four days?’

‘Hopefully not.’ The Engineer Officer’s tone was guarded.

‘Right,’ said Yashimoto briskly. ‘Now for your duties. To be attended to immediately.’ He spoke first to Kagumi, ‘Prepare an inflatable for launching. Check that the outboard engine is in good running order. Take four men as crew: a signalman, two seamen and a mechanician. You’ll need a compass, leadlines for sounding, signal torches, boathooks, spare fuel and rope painters. Your duty will be to examine and report on possible hide-outs. You and your crew will carry revolvers and spare ammunition. I’ll give you detailed orders when the time comes.’ Yashimoto paused, looked up at the sky where the moon had found a break in the clouds, its light illuminating the little group on the gun-platform. He was not pleased to see it. The new compass course would take them five miles clear of the light at Ilha Medjumbi, but they would not be past it until half an hour before midnight — that was still two hours away. After that the moon could be useful.

He shifted his attention to Satugawa. ‘Now your duties, Chief. Muster every implement on board that can be used for sawing, chopping or cutting timber, branches or brushwood. For a start begin with the damage control outfits. Take from them the saws and hatchets in each compartment. There are other items which can be adapted. Bayonets and cutlasses, for example. With your lathes, drills, etcetera, it should be possible to turn them into pangas or the equivalent. We want forty of these to be ready by 0130. That gives you four hours. Any problems?’

Darkness hid the Engineer Officer’s grim smile. The question was typical of the Captain. Of course there were problems. Many of them, and not the least the time available. But he said, ‘I will do my best, sir.’

Yashimoto consulted the luminous dial of his watch. It showed 2147. ‘Later than I thought,’ he snapped. ‘Better get busy.’

The three men left the gun-platform. Yashimoto returned to the bridge, the others to the control-room. The wardroom steward arrived on the bridge with a bowl of rice, dried fish and hot tea.

Yashimoto lowered his binoculars. ‘What is our ETA for sighting the Medjumbi light?’ he asked the Navigating Officer.

‘Twenty-three hundred, sir.’

‘Another hour and a quarter.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The Captain looked to the west, the direction in which the moon would be moving when it passed its zenith towards midnight. The sky there was still heavy with cloud, but the break high in the east through which moon and stars now shone was growing larger. Well, one can’t have everything, he decided. We have a calm sea, no more than a light breeze, and a fine hot night. He sighed, took off his cap, ran a hand across a moist forehead. He was tired, but rest was out of the question. Certainly until well into the coming day, if then. Only now, for the first time since the encounter with Fort Nebraska, was he able to reflect upon the night’s events. So much had happened in so short a space of time. It was difficult to believe that it was just about an hour since I-357 had fired the first shell at the Liberty ship. That seemed to him to have taken place much further back in time.

He had not enjoyed the killing of the survivors. They were seamen, like him and his own men. But Japan and the United States were at war. It was his duty to sink enemy shipping. Similarly it was his duty to do everything possible to prevent the loss of I-357 and her crew once she had been damaged by enemy gunfire. Had the US ship not fired that shell he wouldn’t have been compelled to liquidate her survivors. What made matters worse was the deception the Americans had employed. Already on fire and sinking, the Liberty ship had stopped engines, turned out lifeboats, and begun signalling. All those actions suggested a crew about to abandon ship, despite which they had opened fire. In the circumstances he’d had no option but to do as he had. It was either the Americans’ lives or those of his men. The Fort Nebraska was carrying supplies to the enemy. Her crew were actively engaged in fighting Japan. Those who chose to be warriors must abide by the bushido code. They had died in action. No warrior could ask for more.

Much to Yashimoto’s relief clouds once more shut out the moon, settling a cloak of darkness over the sea on which the submarine moved steadily in towards the coast.

As so often, it was he who made the first sighting of the winking point of light on the port bow. He did not announce it, waiting instead to see how long it might take Sato and the lookouts to pick it up. In the meantime he checked its characteristics: a white light flashing twice at one minute intervals, range ten miles. Yes, it was definitely Medjumbi Island. His thoughts were interrupted by Sato’s voice. ‘Red ten, sir. White light flashing twice.’ The Navigating Officer’s report was followed almost immediately by one from the bow lookout. Yashimoto doubted whether the man had actually seen the light, but let that pass. Instead he growled, ‘It’s been in sight for close on two minutes. In that time we have travelled nearly half a mile. You men must be more vigilant.’

Sato and the lookouts were silent. The Captain’s rebuke was a routine one. The truth of the matter was that no one could compete with his night vision.

But Yashimoto was pleased. The light had been sighted eight minutes ahead of ETA. So the inshore current was with them. Before the night was out it would save him much needed time.

During the approach to the Medjumbi light the Navigating Officer had determined by compass bearing that the current was setting north at two knots: it was the counter-current to which the Sailing Directions referred as ‘a possibility at times’. Twelve minutes later he reported the light to be abeam, distance five miles.

Yashimoto reduced speed to fourteen knots. To Sato he said, ‘We will make for the inner passage now, between the coast and the islands. Bring her round to port. Remain at five miles from the light.’ He moved over to the voice-pipe, called the control-room. The First Lieutenant answered.

‘We are entering the inner passage now,’ said Yashimoto. ‘Is the inflatable ready for launching?’

‘Yes, sir, it’s on the after-casing. Crew standing by. All ready when you give the word.’

‘Good. Come to the bridge, Kagumi. The more eyes here the better.’ Yashimoto thought a lot of the First Lieutenant. Kagumi, small, physically strong, was a first rate officer. Keen, intelligent and dependable, he was a good handler of men.

When the First Lieutenant reached the bridge Yashimoto was at its fore-end, binoculars to his eyes, the Navigating Officer next to him. ‘The western sky is still clearing,’ observed the Captain. ‘What time is moonset, Navigator?’

Sato smiled in the darkness. Wily old bird, he thought. If anybody knows the time of moonset it’s him. But he said, ‘0433, sir.’

‘Correct. We may have moonlight soon. The western sky is clearing. It’s a mixed blessing. Fine for navigating the inner passage, but bad otherwise. Could make the boat dangerously visible.’

The First Lieutenant said a dutiful, ‘Yes, sir.’

Kagumi always agrees with the Captain, thought Sato. But only in words. He’s contemptible.

Yashimoto went on. ‘At least while it’s as dark as this no one on Medjumbi can see us. Not at five miles. Once we’re into the inner passage it will be different if the moon comes.’

‘It seems from the Sailing Directions,’ said the First Lieutenant, ‘that the only inhabitants along this part of the coast are likely to be African fishermen. I don’t suppose they’ve ever seen a submarine. Probably wouldn’t know one if they did.’

Well done, Ito Kagumi! reflected Sato. There’s original thought for you. The Navigating Officer was, like many reservist officers, a university graduate. He disliked the First Lieutenant whom he regarded as a sycophant; a predictable automaton, always doing and saying the right thing. Earlier in the control-room Sato had heard him expressing approval of the Captain’s action in ordering the ‘liquidation’ of survivors. What a word to use when discussing the wholesale killing of human beings. Sato, who’d majored in philosophy, had been appalled by the night’s events. To him they seemed a ghastly nightmare. The men in the water, the cold glare of the searchlight illuminating white faces, eyes staring in horror, screaming voices, machine-gun fire ripping into them. Yet Kagumi had approved. Sato’s disturbing thoughts were banished by the muffled sound of the Captain’s voice from under the canvas screen on the bridge chart-table.

‘Sir?’ inquired the Navigating Officer.

‘We’ll be altering to the north again, shortly,’ said Yashi-moto. ‘It looks as if we can find depths of at least five fathoms most of the way up the inner passage. There’s a shallow patch west of the Vadiazi Shoal. About three and a half fathoms. We’ll trim up for that, reduce draught to a minimum. Once past the shoal we can trim down again. There are two small islets before the Nameguo Shoal. I want you to check on them, Kagumi. We’ll put the inflatable into the water soon after we’ve altered course. You’d better go down now and standby. Got your revolver?’

‘Yes, sir.’ The First Lieutenant gave the holster a reassuring pat before leaving the bridge.

The Medjumbi light receded and the moon once more shone through cloud breaks which widened as the night grew older. The temperature was in the high-seventies, the atmosphere humid, still and windless above the mirror-smooth sea over which the submarine travelled. To starboard lay the islands, to port the coast, neither more than a few miles distant at any time. Against the background of diesel clatter, silence on the bridge was broken at times by Yashimoto’s orders, the responses of the Coxswain, and the voice of the Navigating Officer calling the depths recorded by the echo-sounder. The Medjumbi light grew fainter and in time disappeared. Yashimoto knew from the chart that another fifteen miles of hazardous water had to be navigated before the Tambuzi light was sighted. He hoped they would find a hide-out well before then.

The inflatable had taken station ahead, the note of its two-stroke still audible on the bridge. From time to time the shaded blue lights of signal torches blinked messages between the two craft. More often than not they concerned alterations of course ordered by Yashimoto and repeated to the inflatable by the Yeoman. Sometimes distant fires and the drifting smell of woodsmoke told of African villages. On three occasions native catamarans were sighted; dark, loglike shapes in the moonlight, usually with a single occupant. None was close, which helped Yashimoto’s peace of mind.

Within the hour three islets had been checked. In each case the reconnaissance had been brief, Kagumi reporting that they were unsuitable. Then the submarine would get under way again with the inflatable once more in station ahead. Some time after the third island had been found wanting, the light on Tambuzi Island was sighted, an event which caused Yashimoto to sigh with relief. Bringing the submarine up through the inner passage, much of the time in total darkness, had been an exhausting task calling for unremitting concentration. Only when the clouds had cleared sufficiently to allow full moonlight had it become less arduous.

It was after sighting the Tambuzi light that Yashimoto stopped engines for the fourth time and ordered Kagumi to investigate a small islet a couple of miles south-west of the Nameguo Shoal. While the inflatable sped towards it Yashimoto waited, tense and uncertain, and tired with anxiety. The hunt for a hide-out was taking longer than he’d planned, and they hadn’t yet covered half the area to be searched. The chances of concealing I-357 before daylight were growing slimmer.

Satugawa came up to report progress. The damage control outfits in the submarine’s watertight compartments had yielded ten axes and ten saws: from four of these the engine-room staff had already made two double-handed saws for cutting large timber. There were, in addition, four long-handled wire cutters which could be used on the smaller branches of trees — ‘branches that are not more than sixteen centimetres in diameter,’ announced Satugawa, always a man for exactitude. A bayonet had been turned into a serviceable panga, seven more would be produced, and he had no doubt the total of forty cutting implements would be ready by two o’clock in the morning.

Yashimoto permitted himself a rare smile. That is good work, Chief. I knew you would not fail me.’

Why the me, thought Sato. It’s us surely? Would not the price of failure have to be paid by all of us?

Sitting in the rope-bin in water up to his waist Corrigan found time to think about many things; like the chances of being picked up. Had Jim McManus got off the emergency signal before he and his wireless cabin were blown to smithereens? If a ship did come along, would anyone see him in the rope-bin? Would the calm sea and fine weather last? How long could he last without food and water? Where would the current take him? He had no idea of Fort Nebraska's position when she sank. He’d known they were somewhere off the East Coast of Africa, but how far off he’d no idea. In time these doubts gave way to more positive thoughts, for Brad Corrigan was an optimistic young man. There was a lot to be said for the plus things, he decided. After all, he was still alive and well but for scratches on his face and hands, and oil fuel with its horrid stench burning his skin, making his eyes smart and his scalp itch. Not that he could remember how he’d got the scratches. There’d been fuel oil all over the place. In spite of everything he was the sole survivor from a crew of forty-five. That was quite something. He wouldn’t have got away with it but for his job before the War. He had to be plenty grateful for that. And finding the rope-bin had been a bit of luck. No way could the sharks get at him now, even if they were threshing about not far away. Greedy bastards. Tearing at dead men’s bodies like that. Fighting each other for the best takes.

There were other things, too — like he’d have been in a bad way if it’d been rough. And small things like being able to tell the time because he always wore a waterproof diving-watch. So it could have been plenty worse. Not like for poor old Smitty Fredericks. Nothing had gone okay for him. It wasn’t right that it was like that. Smitty was a real good guy. But even if he hadn’t been wounded, he wouldn’t have got away with it because he was no good in the water and those bastards’ machine-guns would have got him if the sharks hadn’t.

Pity that 5-inch shell hadn’t blown the goddam submarine out of the water. All the same it had made a bloody great hole in the conning-tower. Sure wouldn’t be able to dive with a hole like that. Jesus, he thought, that was a lucky hit. He recaptured the excitement of the moment, the flash of flame and the rumble of the explosion, and remembered shouting, ‘For Chrissake, Smitty. We’ve hit the bastard. What d’ya know about that?’ and Smitty had screamed back, ‘Yeh — I know, Brad. I know. Jeez, man. I saw it, didn’t I?’ And then they’d struggled to reload the gun and lay and train it. A helluva business that. It was a heavy old gun, and there was the list and all, and Smitty not too good because of the wound, and — anywise, after all that goddam sweat the next round went way over. He supposed he’d over-corrected because of the list. But the real miracle was hitting with that first round.

When the Jap’s shell exploded almost on Fort Nebraska's gun the concussion had knocked him out. It couldn’t have been too long before he came to. He’d shouted to the others in the darkness then, but got no answer. Not until he’d shouted a second time and heard Smitty’s voice sounding kinda funny: ‘Who? What’s happened?’ Smitty had yelled that out like a kid. It hadn’t taken long after that to realize that the rest of the gun’s crew were dead or unconscious. Corrigan, he’d been gunlayer, remembered shouting to Smitty who was a loading number. ‘Say, were we loaded when that Jap shell hit us?’

Smitty had croaked, ‘Yeh, sure,’ and Corrigan had said, ‘Well, c’mon man. Let’s go. I’ll lay and train. You handle the breech.’ It was then that Smitty had said, ‘I guess I’ve been hit, Brad. My left leg don’t seem to want to move.’

So Corrigan had laid, trained and fired the gun more or less on his own, with Smitty doing his best to help, which hadn’t amounted to much. What they’d been trying to do had been just about impossible in those conditions; total black darkness, the ship listing heavily, bodies to trip over round the breech end of the gun and Smitty just about out. Thinking of all that, Corrigan reckoned it was bloody marvellous they’d fired the shell, let alone got a hit on the conning-tower. That was a million to one chance if ever there was one.

And then, after that, Smitty had somehow crawled to the ammunition rack with him and they’d lifted out another shell and got it into the breech. All of which took time with the list getting steadily worse, and of course the miracle wasn’t repeated with the next shot.

He supposed that if he was rescued he’d have to write letters to Smitty’s folks in Pittsburg, and to his girl in Baltimore. That wouldn’t be easy. Writing letters wasn’t his thing.

Moonlight made it possible to watch the inflatable skim across the placid sea, its wake white and conspicuous, the crew dark huddled shapes. Before long it had disappeared behind a headland on the north side of the island.

Yashimoto wondered what Kagumi would find there. Yet another disappointment? No name showed against the tiny black spot on the chart — one of many such in the long chain of islands. But seen from the submarine’s bridge, half a mile away, it raised Yashimoto’s hopes; the dark silhouette was like that of a crouching monster, the uneven, serrated skyline suggesting bush or trees, its height perhaps a hundred feet above sea level. But height, though useful, was not enough. Was it inhabited? Was there timber? Was the depth of water sufficient to take I-357 close inshore?

Such things could not be known until Kagumi returned.