Captain (D)’s signal? Surely to God the operations room couldn’t imagine there’d been enough time to complete the search. They’ve got bloody great charts, he told himself, the Catalinas will have reported where we were AM and PM. So they know the approximate rate of our search. Why call it off less than half way through? Can’t they see from the chart that the Jap is just as likely to have looked for a hide-out to the south of Fort FTs sinking position as to the north?
Tired though he was he could formulate only one response to these conjectures and rhetorical questions: Restless's search would continue. Only if the southern section yielded nothing by the end of the following day would he set course for Mombasa. To call a halt now was as unthinkable as it was indefensible. A dialogue with Caroline took shape in his mind.
‘But why did you give up half way?’ she was saying.
‘Because of the signal. Captain (D) ordered me to return.’
With a small frown, a lifting of the eyebrows, she said, ‘But surely you didn’t have to answer. W/T silence and all that. You could have gone on, couldn’t you?’
‘And disobeyed orders?’
‘Why not? Nelson did. He said he couldn’t see the signal. You could say you hadn’t received it.’
‘So I let you down?’
‘That’s for your conscience to decide. I don’t know. I’m dead.’
And so the interminable mental wrangle had gone on, and her Why not? Nelson did, kept repeating itself until, at long last, he fell asleep.
But for a gentle roll, an occasional creak in the superstructure and the distant murmur of machinery, there was little indication in the wardroom that Restless was at sea. The few officers there were reading, talking or idling in other ways. One of them, the Engineer Officer, sat on a settee, hands clasped behind his head, legs stretched out in front of him. He made a second attempt to get the Doctor’s attention. ‘And what would be the important book that so engrosses the Doctor?’ he asked, the sing-song Welsh accent exaggerated for the occasion.
The Doctor looked up, frowned. ‘It’s a scholarly work by a German gentleman,’ he said. ‘You would not have read him.’
‘Ah. And which one might that be?’ The Welshman covered a yawn with a large hand. ‘Thomas Mann maybe, or Mr Einstein?’
‘No. From its title you might conclude that I have here a treatise on constipation. But it is not so, though some might describe the work as related to that complaint.’
‘Mein Kampf,’ came from a fair man with a square face who was playing chess with a midshipman. The square face belonged to Andrew Weeks, a Lieutenant RNVR who had graduated from Oxford not long before the War began.
The Doctor turned to look at him. ‘Very good, Andy. Nothing like a classical education. And now, for a hundred dollars, my next question. Who was the author?’
Midshipman Galpin’s hand went up. ‘Adolf Hitler, sir.’
‘You weren’t asked, precocious youth.’ The Doctor frowned, went back to his book.
The Torpedo Officer, John Taylor, a small thin man with black crinkly hair and dark eyes, threw a last dart at the board before slumping into an armchair next to the sprawling figure of Sandy Hamilton, who opened an eye to see who the newcomer was.
Taylor said, ‘Sorry if I’ve disturbed you, Number One.’
‘Not at all. It’s a pleasure. One always enjoys being disturbed, particularly when dreaming.’ The First Lieutenant shifted his legs and rearranged himself in the chair.
‘Camilla was it?’ suggested Taylor.
‘Officers and gentlemen don’t discuss ladies in the wardroom.’
‘Sorry, Number One. I must apologize for the lapse.’ The Torpedo Officer’s sigh was exaggerated. ‘She’s very beautiful.’
‘Pipe down, little man. That’s enough.’
Taylor smiled. ‘Now that you’re awake. May I ask you a question?’
‘Yes. If it’s not about politics, religion or women.’
Taylor leant towards the First Lieutenant, lowered his voice. ‘A bit odd that the Old Man has ignored Captain (D)’s signal, isn’t it?’
‘What d’you mean?’ There was a cautionary note in the First Lieutenant’s reply.
‘You know what I mean. Sunset was two hours ago. We haven’t the slightest clue where the ruddy submarine is. And yet here we are farting up and down a patrol line when we should be legging it for Mombasa.’
The First Lieutenant, his eyes on the chess players, didn’t reply. Slowly, and with some effort, he levered himself out of the armchair, yawned and stretched.
Taylor said, ‘You haven’t answered my question, Number One.’
The First Lieutenant stared at him. ‘I’m not in the business of criticizing the Captain’s decisions,’ he said. ‘Nor should you be.’
He looked round the wardroom, tapped his mouth to hide another yawn. ‘I think I’ll turn in,’ he announced to no one in particular as he went to the door. He, too, wondered what the Captain was up to.
It was not long before the voice-pipe on the bulkhead above Barratt’s pillow whistled him awake. It was the officer-of-the-watch. ‘Captain — bridge. Radar contact — small target, dead ahead, bearing steady, range eight miles, closing slowly.’
‘Good. I’ll be up in a second.’ Barratt rolled off the settee, blinked at the single red light allowed in his sea-cabin, looked at the time, course and speed indicators on the bulkhead and set off for the bridge. Small target was probably a coaster, but it could equally be a surfaced submarine. Dead ahead, bearing steady and closing slowly meant it was on the same course as the destroyer which was overtaking.
It was some time before the range had closed sufficiently for the A/S cabinet to classify the target as ‘small ship, single screw, reciprocating engine’. So it wasn’t a submarine.
Nor were several other reports that brought Barratt to the bridge that night.
Fourteen
By sunset I-357’s crew were ready for another night of hard work. Rested and refreshed, most of them having slept through the afternoon, there was much chattering and laughter as they made ready their equipment before going ashore. There was now an addition to their ranks. Kasuki, the man who’d received a headwound from a shell splinter, had been passed fit by the Coxswain. With a bandage round his head the young able seaman was questioned by the Navigating Officer to whom he had expressed his keenness to join the shore party. T feel good,’ he told Sato who, with the First Lieutenant’s permission, then detailed him to work with the carrying party.
In accordance with Yashimoto’s orders the forenoon had been devoted to cleaning up the submarine below decks; the results were remarkable. The litter had gone from compartments which had been washed down and made ship-shape enough for an admiral’s inspection; the foul smells of rotting food and hot unwashed bodies had given way to those of disinfectant, tinged with the ever-present odour of diesel oil. The foliage spread over I-357 made conditions on board more tolerable than they would otherwise have been. Open hatches and sea breezes from the creek blowing through the different compartments did much to check the high temperatures of the Tropics. The excellence of the crew’s morale was in part due to this, but in the main it came from the knowledge that a dangerous situation had been averted: the Captain had found a safe hiding place, the repairs to the conning-tower were going ahead, and enemy aircraft had failed to spot the submarine. In a few days they would be putting to sea again, bound for Penang with all the pleasures and comforts that promised. For this they had to thank their Captain, a man for whom they had the greatest respect. He was, they knew, a highly efficient naval officer; calm under all conditions, however difficult and dangerous; they saw him as someone who always acted decisively, always made the right decisions.