Waynes produced another set of photos and laid them out over the pictures of the Sen-Tokus.
MacArthur understood exactly what he was looking at, but asked the question anyway.
“What am I looking at here, Lieutenant?”
“Sir, these items were recovered from the ocean on Christmas Day… by the frigate, HMSAS Transvaal. They were in a weighted bag. According to the report, the find was purely accidental.”
He placed the written report from the commander of the Transvaal in front of the general.”
“Sir, the Transvaal was searching for recently identified U-Boat supply points, with orders to recover anything of importance and nullify the contents, leaving no risk to civilians. This was found during their Christmas Day lay over at one of those sites.”
The pictures showed a Japanese naval rank marking, a leather wallet, the contents of which had not survived the ministrations of saltwater, a silver neck chain, and a uniform cap.
“The bag itself had suffered. However, the rank insignia are clearly those of an IJN ensign. The wallet is no help, except that it has a wooden button, which might make it recent… the nips moved to wooden buttons as resources failed… the chain is nothing special… but it’s the cap that gave us what we needed, Sir.”
The rate of puffing increased.
“Ensign Kisokada I… we have him on record, Sir.”
Waynes produced his final copy with a flourish and placed in front of MacArthur, to whom the Japanese writing was nothing but gibberish, but for whom the English language notation meant everything.
He read the simple words aloud.
“Kisokada, Ito… passed… 4/62… assignment 6th Fleet… STS… STS…”
MacArthur caught sight of a heavily marked section of the original document.
“What’s this, Lieutenant?”
“That is the most interesting part of all, Sir. Our best guess is that the clerk noted down his duty station and then erased it and inserted STS.”
“What did it say?”
“Our best guess is 4-0-1, which is probably the I-401.”
“I-401?”
“Yes, Sir. It should be noted that the official Combined Fleet records do not show an I-401, even in the planning stage.”
“Alternatives? What else could it be?”
“None that we can imagine, Sir. No surface vessel could have made it to South Africa. Had to be a submarine that this Kisokada came from, Sir.”
MacArthur rose up, pipe in mouth, coffee in hand, and walked briskly to the map that had priority place on the wall.
He dropped onto his haunches and used the stem of his pipe to trace the route from Imperial Japan to the east coast of Africa.
“So, what’s Admiral Towers’ think about their plans… what the nips are up to… what’s got them so interested in Africa… what’s around there…?”
MacArthur looked for anything that jumped out at him.
The other officer Lieutenant j.g Takeo, spoke rapidly.
“Sir, I’m sorry. Did you not see the map work? The items were found at the mouth of the Ondusengo River, where intelligence had placed a U-Boat supply dump.”
Takeo, being nearest the map, dropped down alongside the general and pointed.
“That would be here, Sir… in South-West Africa… on the Atlantic coast.”
“What?”
The two stood up in response to Waynes’ cough as he stood ready with the map he had placed before MacArthur very early on in the briefing.
“Admiral Towers is making sure the West Coast stateside is prepared, but sure as eggs is eggs, whatever the Japs are planning is not within our area, Sir.”
“Hold on one cotton-picking minute, sailor. Are you telling me that the Nip navy had submarines, probably four big submarines, at large in the Atlantic since… when?”
“Probably since late July, early August, Sir.”
“Goddamnit!”
The pipe started to chug as General MacArthur worked the possibilities.
“Anywhere in the world, you say?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Goddamnit!”
He headed back to the desk, followed by the two junior officers.
MacArthur’s mind was working overtime.
“We know that some of the Nips are quite happy to fight on… but that’s mainly those who haven’t heard of the surrender… or who disbelieve it.”
He rummaged through the evidence on his desk, here and there examining a piece more closely.
“This is organised. Slipped out of Japan… in convoy probably… to the Russians… then they sail into the Atlantic…”
“There are people working on the possibilities right now, Sir.”
“So, lieutenants… where could they be by now?”
The two men exchanged looks and Waynes took the lead.
“Anywhere on the planet, Sir.”
That piece of information, along with the rest of the intelligence brief, arrived with General Eisenhower later that evening, as a priority message from Washington.
A pleasant but extremely cold Thursday was suddenly transformed into a boiling maelstrom as department after department was brought in, all with a view to answering a number of questions that were foremost in the mind of the head of NATO’s European forces.
All of a sudden, the world seemed to be less safe.
1054 hrs, Saturday, 4th January 1947, the Apostles Simon and Jude Thaddaeus Church, Skawina, Poland.
This was not the first time that he had been in a church in recent weeks.
The last time he had slipped into Wawel Cathedral in Krakow and lit a candle in memory of those who had perished in the camp.
His mind wandered to that visit, and the events of Christmas Day.
Lavalle leant closer to his friend and whispered, startling him from his reverie.
“You know, your sergent… Hässelbach… he’s got a book running on when she’ll arrive. Celestin’s the official time keeper apparently.”
Knocke raised an eyebrow and looked at the French officer at the end of the row of benches, eyes glued to a pocket watch, before returning to fix the gaze of his commander, Lavalle.
He mercilessly interrogated the Frenchmen with his eyes, the slightest of grins revealing his amusement.
“Yes, ok… a small wager… but at least I said she’d be on time… none of this late nonsense… unlike some.”
He eyed Haefali and Uhlmann, who seemed to be constantly checking their watches.
Knocke followed his line of sight and received smiles in return.
“So, whilst I’m embarking on the most important of events, you and your officers are trying to make money out of the proceedings?”
“C’est la guerre, mon ami.”
They both snorted loudly, the sound almost echoing around the inside of the old church.
Outside, the white walled building blended seamlessly with the recent heavy snowfall, despite the efforts of teams of legionnaires, who laboured long and hard to remove as much of the blizzard’s product as possible.
The same men now formed a guard of honour, waiting for the arrival of the woman who was to marry their commander.
Knocke looked at his two daughters, sat either side of Madame Fleriot and being fussed over by old Jerome, their attendance made possible only by the direct intervention of De Lattre, who sat prominently in the second row of the bride’s side, the empty spaces around him emphasising his importance.
The number of his officers looking at watches became apparent, and Knocke realised that Hässelbach had been very very busy indeed.
The smile on his face spread, for he knew that Lavalle’s bet was safe.
At 1100 to the second, the doors opened and the choir started to sing, as Anne-Marie de Valois, on the arm of Georges de Walle, proceeded steadily down the aisle.