The explosions started about two kilometres away. Inexorably they crept towards the harbour and the sweating men, still struggling to get the heavy wooden crates into the belly of the submarine. The lethal missiles sped with deadly purpose towards the harbour, exploding fifty metres apart.
The terrified men inevitably noticed the approach of death. Two of them, balanced precariously on the swaying gang plank, panicked, dropped the crates they were manhandling and ran across the deck of the submarine to dive into the murky water on the other side and comparative safety.
One of the crates landed on the hand rail of the submarine’s deck, poising on the edge for a moment before slipping between the hull and the quay to rest precariously on the hemp fender; the other fell back on to the quay, shattering its wooden case and scattering the contents across the concrete wharf.
Ignoring the approaching shower of death, the men nearest to the broken box stopped in awe.
“My God it looks like gold!” one exclaimed loudly as he ran his hand in wonder over the shiny metal.
An officer ran up to the astonished soldiers.
“Quiet,” he ordered, withdrawing his pistol. “This is the personal property of the Emperor and is being returned to our sacred homeland, where it will be used to help us destroy these barbaric Americans who, don’t forget, are also bombing your homes and killing your families!” He waved his pistol in defiance at the sky. “Now repack this crate immediately and put it with the rest aboard the sub. Understand?” he screamed loudly to make himself heard above the now continuous din. The men bowed nervously in fear of their lives at he mention of their Emperor God; they were even more aware that the Americans were indeed bombing Tokyo all the time.
The officer sprinted across the gangplank to grab the other case. He missed it by a split second as it toppled over the fender and down the curved side of the submarine to vanish into the black water. The officer looked about in terror, fearing the inevitable retribution over the loss of such a precious crate.
The next few explosions were so close that they drowned out all other thoughts and sounds, driving all and sundry, including the other hysterical pistol-waving officers, to the ground in abject terror. No one else had noticed the incident.
Miraculously, the bombs had missed the submarine and the convoy. Dazed men slowly picked themselves up, only to be berated by the screaming angry officer and ordered to gather up the shattered box and its precious contents. Still in a state of shock, they mindlessly obeyed, scurrying up onto the ship and passing the broken pieces of wood and the shiny ingots down to the waiting hands in the submarine’s hold.
Having against all the odds survived the first bombing pass unscratched; the submarine’s commander was not going to risk any further exposure.
“You must finish loading now,” he ordered the officer in charge of the convoy. With only half the lorries unloaded a heated exchange ensued. The submarine commander was adamant that he was going to leave immediately. It was imperative that he kept the rendezvous with the cruiser and completed the transfer of the special cargo under cover of darkness. Stationary ships in the early dawn light would be sitting ducks for the numerous Allied submarines moving daily into the area. He would return the following evening for the rest, the commander promised the distraught officer.
Several soldiers and one senior officer were ordered to climb aboard the vessel to escort the cargo. The remainder of the saturated and completely exhausted men returned to their vehicles. Now they would have to find a safe though temporary location to hide the remains of the convoy until tomorrow.
“Take those trucks back to the cave!” the submarine commander quietly ordered a bedraggled Lieutenant, pointing to three trucks, which had arrived after the main column and parked away from the others. “I think we may have to stand off for a few days before it’s safe to re-enter this harbour again. Guard them well!”
He patted the lieutenant reassuringly on the shoulder; they held a particular interest for him.
When the submarine commander had agreed to transfer the special cargo, he’d calculated the loading time required for about fifty metric tonnes plus enough space for his own personal shipment. So when one hundred tonnes was presented to him he knew at once that they would have to make a second trip to accommodate the extra crates. Even now the current gross weight was well in excess of his vessel’s technical maximum capacity.
The bombing raid had conveniently interrupted the loading, providing him with a legitimate reason to terminate the exercise. Even then he found to his horror that an inordinate number of the crates had been distributed forward of the conning tower. The eight bow tubes had been loaded with torpedoes and the resulting space used to store some of the heavy crates, so even as the mooring lines were being cast off the commander ordered his crew to start redistributing the awkward boxes.
The dark submarine moved silently away from the quay just as the next hail of death started raining from the sky. Excessively low at the nose, the submarine headed slowly under its diesel engines to the open water of Manila Bay. The seamen below, sweating in the tropical heat and the cramped passageways, struggled to manoeuvre some of the heavy boxes towards the stern of the ship. The adverse trim meant that the captain had to maintain the forward hydroplanes at maximum elevation to keep the submarine’s attitude level the effect however was to force the vessel’s speed down to a maximum of ten knots.
Thus they sailed away from the maelstrom in the harbour and set a course for a position South West of the island of Corregidor and their rendezvous with the cruiser.
The submarine commander and the Japanese army officer who’d boarded the sub in Manila were the only people who knew the ultimate destination of the precious cargo.
It wasn’t Japan.
The Imperial Japanese navy cruiser was one of only a handful of serviceable ships still operating in the area and was now charged with the responsibility for the next leg of the secret journey.
As the cargo was gradually redistributed, the submarine assumed a more stable attitude in the water and the speed increased to almost fifteen knots. They were late for their rendezvous. Reluctantly, radio silence had to be broken to allow the briefest of messages confirming their later rendezvous time.
The first pinkish streaks of dawn were creeping into the horizon as the two ships finally met and tied up together. The derricks on the cruiser were already beamed out ready with their net slings swinging gently in the swell; even as the submarine secured her lines the slings were being lowered into position over the hatches. Men scrambled around on the decks of both vessels making preparations to transfer the cargo. The commander meticulously completed his log entry, carefully noting the exact latitude and longitude of their meeting according to the navigator’s dead reckoning. He carefully added the same information to his personal maps of the Philippines.
“Ready to commence transfer!” the petty officer on board the submarine called out to the commander who had just appeared on the conning tower platform, his leather map case strapped across his shoulder.
“Carry on!” he confirmed, relieved to have finally made the rendezvous and eager to divest his vessel of its excessively heavy cargo. He prepared to cross over to the cruiser, where he had arranged to meet with the captain and confirm the precise orders for the next stage of the secret journey. Seconds later the cruiser appeared to be lifted out of the water as if she were on a gigantic wave. The percussion from the first torpedo as it tore the guts of the ship apart was more devastating than the sound of the actual explosion and the accompanying shock wave, which sucked the air out of the doomed sailors’ lungs.