The inflatable with Sato and his crew got back to the submarine at half-past seven that morning. Yashimoto’s concern at their late return was mollified by the quality of the chart the Navigating Officer had made. He was also much relieved by Sato’s report that there were no signs of human habitation other than the huts in the creek. Looking at the chart it struck Yashimoto that Creek Island was shaped like a wolf’s head: the creek its mouth, the bluff the big fang which shut out the view from seaward. Perhaps he should have called it Wolf Island. ‘Later,’ he told Sato. ‘You must complete the chart with soundings in the creek and its approaches.’
The hills which enclosed the creek and the bluff which jutted into the narrows not only hid the submarine from seaward but provided shelter from the prevailing wind. The steep, wooded slopes rising up from the water’s edge would, he realized, cast shadows over the creek through most of the day. An enemy warship attempting to enter must, on rounding the bluff, come within point blank range of the submarine’s forward torpedo tubes; finally, the creek was so narrow, its sides so high, that bombing runs by aircraft would be difficult. For purposes of defence, decided Yashimoto, Creek Island could scarcely have been better. The disadvantages were that the hills, and the leafy camouflage on the conning-tower, limited the function of the search receiver, while the hydrophones could only be effective over a restricted sector where the narrows led into the creek’s basin. Distant warning of a ship approaching would be difficult at night.
The advantages the island’s geography conferred on the submarine were shared in quite different ways by the African fishing community. Small wonder, thought Yashimoto, that they had sited their huts where they were.
A short time after sunrise that morning the seven sentries guarding the land approaches to I-357, and the petty officer and men from the inflatable on duty in the creek, returned on board having been relieved by personnel from the spare crew pool with Sub-Lieutenant Nikaido in command in place of Lieutenant Matsuhito.
At about eight o’clock the operator on the sound receiver reported the approach of an aircraft on a southerly bearing. Three short blasts were immediately sounded on the bridge siren and all activity in I-357 ceased. In accordance with orders the sentries at once took cover. Camouflaged with foliage, the inflatable at the creek entrance nosed into the bank to hide under overhanging branches.
The atmosphere in the control-room became tense, no one moving, many eyes looking at the deckhead as the distant drone increased in volume until it passed overhead in a crescendo of sound, only to become steadily fainter as the aircraft drew away.
‘Flying low.’ The Captain spoke in a subdued voice. ‘No more than a few hundred feet, probably. If he does not circle and return soon, all is well.’
The First Lieutenant nodded assent. During the next few minutes tension in the control-room slowly diminished. Yashimoto looked towards the cabinet where the sound operator sat, staring blankly, his hands pressing the headphones to his ears. ‘Do you still hear it, Hasumu?’ he demanded.
The operator shook his head. ‘It has gone, sir.’
The Captain turned to Kagumi. ‘Sound the carry-on, First Lieutenant.’
The long shrill blast of the siren travelled down the conning-tower to the control-room.
Within thirty minutes the performance was repeated. This time the aircraft came in from the north and passed over the creek on a southerly heading. Again it gave no indication of having sighted anything untoward. Whether it was the first aircraft returning or another, Yashimoto did not know. Because of the time, and the direction from which it had come, he assumed its base was Kilindini — there was no means of telling. The sentry on duty beneath the foliage on the after gun-platform had reported that both aircraft were Catalinas.
Wearing greasy, sweat-stained khaki shirt and shorts, the pouches under his tired eyes darker and more prominent than usual, Yashimoto addressed the officers and petty officers gathered in the control-room. Their dishevelled, soiled appearance, their weary faces, matched those of their commanding officer. Standing well clear of the conning-tower from which came sounds of hammering and drilling, he began by explaining that strong tropical sunlight would by the end of the day have withered much of the submarine’s leafy camouflage. ‘We’ll have to put fresh layers on top,’ he said, running his tongue across his lower lip. ‘This will mean another night of hard work. But we shall begin it well rested. Until midday all men not otherwise employed will clean and tidy the boat. After so many weeks at sea it is dirty and foul-smelling. This is not your fault. It is unavoidable on a long patrol. But now we have the opportunity to wash-and-brush-up…’ The Captain stopped, showed his teeth in a dry smile. ‘The litter, the grease, the peelings, the food droppings and waste material — all must be collected and made ready for disposal tonight. Each compartment is to be scrubbed and washed down with sea-water, then sprayed with disinfectant. Mess-tins, plates, cutlery and mugs must be scoured and stowed away neatly. The filth, the untidiness, the foul smell in the boat must be gone by noon. After that…’ His voice was drowned by the high pitched whine of an electric drill in the conning-tower where the lower half of a man’s body showed on the ladder. Yashimoto frowned at the First Lieutenant. ‘Tell him to stop that confounded noise until I’ve finished.’
Kagumi shouted up the conning-tower and the drilling stopped. Yashimoto said, The engineroom department makes excellent progress with the repairs. That is good, but they must not silence your Captain.’ With a self-conscious grin he cleared his throat and straightened his cap. ‘All men not detailed for special duties will rest until 1830. Sunset’, he added, ‘will be at 1823. Working parties for tonight will be the same as they were in the early hours of this morning.’ Looking round at the tired, grubby faces, his manner softened. ‘I realize that in this heat we would all like to swim but that’s not possible. Apart from the danger of sharks, nobody may go on deck during daylight hours unless sent by the duty officer. The risk of detection from the air is too great. Further reconnaissance by aircraft may not take place until late in the afternoon, but we cannot take chances. They may come at any time.’ He glanced at the sheet of notes on the chart-table, went on: ‘Now an item of good news.’ Yashimoto’s mouth smiled but not his eyes. ‘The First Lieutenant tells me that the Africans draw their water from a spring behind the huts. Tonight an inflatable goes across with empty drums. Tomorrow we wash ourselves and our clothing in fresh water. That will be a luxury.’
Not quite accurate, thought Sato: We will wash our clothing, the wardroom steward will wash yours. But I do give you credit for having restricted yourself to the daily ration of four mugs of fresh water a day while we were on Pacific patrols.
Yashimoto folded the sheet of notes, placed it in his shirt pocket. ‘That is all,’ he said. ‘You may carry on.’
Restless had rounded Cape Delgado and set out on the last leg to Rovuma Bay when radar reported an aircraft approaching from the north. Not long afterwards it could be seen ahead, the distant speck growing steadily larger. When close the Catalina began to fly in a wide circle, the noise of its engines masking all other sounds, the boatlike fuselage gleaming in the sunlight.