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.
Seven
Time passed but the inflatable did not return, nor could anything be seen of the land for clouds once again obscured the moon. Bearings of the Tambuzi light, and the depth of water by echo-sounder, confirmed that the current was still setting to the north; Yashimoto countered its effect with the helm and engine orders necessary to keep the submarine in position off the headland around which the inflatable had disappeared.
As the minutes ticked by without any sign of it he became increasingly concerned. Looking into the darkness he kept asking himself what could have gone wrong? The First Lieutenant knew that time was vital; yet more than thirty minutes had elapsed since he left I-357. What could he and his crew be doing?
Yashimoto was wondering what to do next when the sound of the outboard was heard on the bridge. Soon a blue light began to wink in the distance. The Yeoman acknowledged and the light flickered into action again. The signal was brief. ‘Message from Lieutenant Kagumi, sir,’ reported the Yeoman. ‘Reads, good news.’
‘Thank you, Yeoman.’ The relief in Yashimoto’s voice and his thank you were a measure of how concerned he’d been. ‘Thank you’ were words he seldom used.
Kagumi’s news was certainly good. ‘This island is ideal, sir,’ were his excited first words on reaching the bridge. ‘In the moonlight I was able to see a good deal. It is about a mile long and a bit less in width. Volcanic in origin I think. The dominant feature is a creek about half a mile long which almost bisects it. The land around the creek rises steeply.
There is deep water, ten to fifteen fathoms over most of its length. As much as five fathoms close inshore in some places. On the eastern side there’s a cluster of huts. Fishermen and their families live there. About forty Africans. Their catamarans are drawn up on the beach in front of the huts. They are…’