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.