No sooner were the bundles stacked in the shadows beneath the trees than bearers would appear, hoist the heavy loads on to their shoulders, and set off once again down the hill up which they’d come. These were Yashimoto’s ‘strong men’.
Activity on the hillside was matched on the submarine’s casing where the camouflage party worked at a blistering pace, covering and draping the casing and saddletanks, the conning-tower, the guns and gun-platforms with foliage.
I-357’s two stewards were continuously on the move, carrying mess-tins of rice and fishmeal to the working parties on shore and refilling watercans. Each time they returned to the submarine they would report progress on the cutting sites to the Captain. On several occasions he sent the First Lieutenant ashore to check the work being done, particularly to ensure that cutting was widely dispersed over the area, and that no lights of any sort were shown.
Slowly but surely with the passing of the hours the submarine took on the appearance of a long green mound. What little water there was between the saddletanks and the mangroves lining the banks had been covered with branches supported by inflatable rafts and lifejackets, pellet buoys and other floatables which, like the gangplanks, would rise and fall with the tides.
By dawn the last touches of camouflage had been added; not far from the submarine’s berth four sizeable young trees had been felled, carried on board and ‘planted’ — one on the forward gun-hatch, one on either side of the periscope standards, and another just abaft the AA gunplatform. Towards sunrise I-357 had so effectively disappeared under her leafy camouflage as to become a part of the creek itself.
Other than the sentries who had been instructed to conceal themselves at daylight and remain at their posts until relieved, the shore parties had returned on board by the time the eastern sky grew lighter. The officers and petty officers were again ordered to the control-room to be addressed by the Captain. When the Coxswain reported that all were present, Yashimoto came from the wardroom and took up his usual stance at the conning-tower ladder; looking around, he smiled approval at the sweat-stained, bearded faces, at the tired bloodshot eyes which regarded him. ‘You and your men have done well,’ he said, emphasizing the commendation with a respective nodding of the head. ‘The honour of the Emperor and the Imperial Japanese Navy has been safe in your hands. May Buddha reward you.’
As if regretting the emotional nature of this benediction he added, ‘Working parties will rest until 0930. The half hour thereafter will be for breakfast. Orders for the day will be issued at 1000. Nobody will go on to the casing without the duty officer’s permission. ’ He paused, his tired mind fumbling with what he had to say while he looked at his notes. ‘All hatches will be left open to ventilate the boat. The branches covering us will improve conditions on board.’ He hesitated, surveying his audience in silence before saying, ‘You may carry on.’ As the officers and petty officers moved off to attend to their various commitments, he beckoned to Kagumi who stood by the door of the W/T office. The First Lieutenant came across.
‘I’m afraid there’s no rest for you, Kagumi.’ The Captain smiled sympathetically. ‘Take two men from the spare pool and go over to the huts in an inflatable. Bring back a couple of catamarans and secure them astern. I have plans for them. With your sign language,’ Yashimoto grinned, ‘tell the Africans that no catamaran is to leave the creek until we have gone. Make sure they understand the penalties. Stress that it is only for a few days. After that we shall have gone. They may fish in the creek, but not beyond the narrows. Before dark each evening their catamarans must be drawn up on the beach in front of the huts. Our sentries will be on guard there.’ He stopped, rubbed his eyes with a knuckled fist, yawned. ‘You and your men must go ahead. Return not later than 0700.’ When Kagumi had gone the Captain sent for the Navigating Officer.
Sato arrived, gaunt, weary-eyed, his khaki shorts crumpled and dirt-stained, his bare arms and torso scratched by the branches he had handled during the long hours of darkness. ‘You sent for me, sir?’
Yashimoto nodded, his eyes elsewhere, as if engaged more with his thoughts than with the dishevelled young man in front of him. ‘Ah, Sato,’ he said as if surprised at the Navigating Officer’s presence. ‘I have an important duty for you. To be completed by 0700. Take an inflatable and crew with two men from the relief pool. I want you to travel right round the seaward side of this island. Chart it as you go. Record the salient features, the presence of ravines and water courses, the estimated height of the hills and so forth. Mark the wooded, bush-clad areas, and the location of beaches. Look out especially for signs of human habitation. See to it that you and your men are well armed, and be sure to return by 0700. When you do, I expect to be shown a useful map of the island.’ Yashimoto smiled with his teeth, a familiar but humourless gesture. ‘It has no name on the chart, but let us call it Creek Island.’
Sato was pleased, flattered. It was an interesting assignment and tired though he was an exciting one for he shared the dream of every navigator — to chart uncharted territory.
‘I will see to that at once, sir.’ He saluted and was about to go when Yashimoto said, ‘Keep close to the shore on the journey round the island. That way you are less likely to be seen.’ Sato saluted again before making for the forward hatch.
With a final look round, the Captain made for his cabin. He sat at the small desk, head in hands, his mind full of questions. Had he thought of everything that should be done? What was going on out there in the Mozambique Channel? Had enemy units arrived at the position given by Fort Nebraska? The approximate times of the morning and afternoon reconnaissance flights over the Mozambique Channel were well known to the Japanese. Would the RAF now cover the coastline and islands? The morning flight was likely to be on its way. Kilindini was about 400 miles to the north, Pamanzi, the RAF base in the Comores, some 300 miles to the south-east. It was unlikely that enemy aircraft could be over the creek much before eight o’clock that morning, but sooner or later they would cover that part of the coast. They would find some pretext to explain to the Portuguese why they had overflown Portuguese colonial territory. Searching for survivors?
How long, he wondered, would it take to make good I-357’s damage? Everything else was subordinate to that. During the passage up the coast Satugawa and the Chief Engineroom Artificer had carried out a detailed examination and agreed on what had to be done. The work was to begin when the rest period ended at ten o’clock that morning.
He got up heavily, the weight of exhaustion upon him, and knelt before the Shinto shrine. He had not been there long before his prayers were interrupted by the distant sound of three shots fired in rapid succession.
Nine
Shortly before three o’clock that morning Restless reached the position given in Fort Nebraska’s signaclass="underline" twenty-two miles east-north-east of Porto do Ibo. In spite of bright moonlight and a glassy sea there was no sign of wreckage or oil slicks, nor did a five mile square search yield any results. Barratt was in the chartroom discussing the problem with the Navigating Officer. ‘How accurate is our position, Pilot?’