The First Lieutenant’s eyes fixed the Captain’s. ‘It is better so, Captain.’
To those in the control-room who had so recently witnessed Noguchi’s disgrace, his end had come as no surprise.
Before long I-357 was back on her northbound course, making good six knots at a depth of twenty-five metres since there was still insufficient light for periscope observations. Watch-diving routine had been resumed and most of the men off watch had taken to their bunks.
In his cabin — it was a small affair with little more than a bunk, a desk, a diminutive settee, and a washbasin with jugged water — Yashimoto was drafting a brief report on the loss overboard of Acting Sub-Lieutenant Noguchi. Not only would it form an entry in the submarine’s logbook but when I-357 reached Penang he intended sending a copy to Rear-Admiral Noguchi, the sub-lieutenant’s uncle. He would send it to the Admiral under cover of a personal letter, conveying his most sincere condolences and extolling the officer-like qualities of Ichiro Noguchi, one-time philosophy student at the University of Tokyo.
For these reasons he was attentive to detail in composing the entry. It was important that it should read well. Having completed the task he made his obeisances before the small Shinto shrine mounted on the forward bulkhead of his cabin, commending the soul of Noguchi to the good offices of his ancestors.
It had been an uneventful day: no sightings on the various occasions that I-357 had come to periscope depth, no reports from the hydrophone operators of propeller noises or echoes, nothing but the rhythmic hum of the electric motors, the whirr of ventilating fans and at times the voices of men. In late afternoon, having rested, Yashimoto went to the chart-table where the submarine’s position was plotted at hourly intervals. With dividers he measured off the distance covered since the 1700 position. The submarine’s course of 355° ran parallel to the Mozambique coast, distant on average some twenty-five miles to port apart from a string of small islands which lay several miles offshore.
For several reasons he had chosen to keep within reasonable distance of the land rather than well out in the broad reaches of the Mozambique Channel. There was plenty of deep water along the coast, much of it 2000 metres and more, merchant ships tended to stay inshore because the British believed it made them safer from submarine attack and, most importantly, the light at Cape Delgado, close on 100 miles ahead, was a focal point for both north and southbound shipping. Running on the surface, I-357 would be off Cape Delgado soon after midnight; Yashimoto had hopes of a target thereabouts, preferably a vessel sailing alone. He was not anxious to tangle again with an escorted convoy. I-357’s recent encounter with one had very nearly ended in disaster; as it was he feared that I-362 might have been lost, for her commanding officer, Lieutenant Commander Suzuki, had made no report since that action. I-362 had been placed under Yashimoto’s command when they left Penang with orders to attack merchant shipping in the Mozambique Channel.
Earlier in the year Rear-Admiral Ishikazi, with five boats of the 8th Submarine Flotilla, had carried out a highly successful operation in the Mozambique Channel, sinking over 120,000 tons of merchant shipping and crippling the British battleship Ramillies. But, as Yashimoto well knew, conditions in the Channel were now very different. Ishikazi had enjoyed the advantage of two armed supply ships, of enemy merchant ships sailing unaccompanied, and the virtual absence of enemy destroyers and other anti-submarine forces, notably aircraft. Yashimoto, with only two submarines under his command, no supply ships and a base plus or minus 5000 miles away, had to operate against well-escorted convoys, patrolling destroyers, and constant surveillance from the air. And since few ships now sailed unaccompanied, easy targets were difficult to find. Yashimoto, a keen and efficient naval officer, found it hard to accept that during the seven weeks since leaving base his two submarines had sunk only four vessels, one of these a coaster off the Chagos islands, on the long outward passage from Penang. Thus the Mozambique operation had yielded only three sinkings so far, no more than 17,000 tons, and I-357 was already homeward bound.
Looking at the slate above the chart-table he saw that sunset was at 1806, moonrise 2034; the clock next to it showed 1801. There was little twilight in the tropics, for the darkness of night soon followed the setting of the sun. The last time I-357 had been at periscope depth Yashimoto had seen storm clouds in the north-western sky. That was where the weather came from. It might be a dark night despite the moon. He decided to surface at about 1930.
Two
Yashimoto took I-357 to periscope depth at 1930. After a thorough check of the screen of darkness around the submarine, and assurances from the hydrophone operator that there were no propeller noises, he ordered, ‘Down periscope — surface.’
The First Lieutenant gave the surfacing orders, the lower hatch was opened by a petty officer, and Yashimoto climbed up the conning-tower ladders, followed by the lookouts.
He eased the safety clips on the upper hatch. When the noise of seas buffeting the bridge ceased, he released the clips, pressure within the submarine then forcing the hatch lid open. Hauling himself clear of the conning-tower he stepped on to the bridge where the last vestiges of sea water were still draining away. Savouring the fresh night air, so welcome after the stale atmosphere below with its odours of diesel, battery gas, human bodies and decaying food, he and the lookouts began probing the darkness with binoculars. Behind the periscope standards the search aerial was turning in its perpetual vigil. Satisfied that all was well, Yashimoto gave the order for the diesels to be started. Charging of the batteries began, air compressors were switched on, and he gave the order for normal patrol routine. It was his custom at night to remain on the bridge with the officer-of-the-watch for the first hour after surfacing; he did this, too, for the hour before the dawn dive.
The sea was calm, its surface still only ruffled by the offshore breeze. Under an overcast sky I-357 slipped through the water at twelve knots, her bows dipping and rising to the undulations of the south-easterly swell. To the officer-of-the-watch, Lieutenant Toshida, the Captain appeared to be in unusually good spirits, certainly more communicative than he had been for some time.
For his part Yashimoto was pleased with the weather, for if the sky remained overcast it boded well for the night; moreover he was glad of the company of Toshida, his Gunnery Officer, a zealous and capable young man for whom he had a high regard. Having remarked that the darkness of the night was accentuated by the banks of cloud which obscured most of the normally starlit southern sky, Yashimoto added, Time of moonrise, Lieutenant?’
‘2034, sir.’
‘Good. Possibly the clouds will hide it.’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Toshida quietly. One did not disagree with the Captain, even if one had doubts. Not that Toshida had. He disliked the moon, but his thoughts at that moment happened to be in Matsuyama, on the shores of the Inland Sea. There his wife was expecting their first child. It might already have arrived. Boy or girl? Had it been a safe delivery? Was she well? He would not know until I-357 reached Penang. The uncertainty troubled him. Once more he raised his binoculars in the endless search.
The voice-pipe buzzer sounded. It was the chief telegraphist, Petty Officer Keda, reporting the receipt of a signal from Penang. The Navigating Officer was, he said, putting it through the cypher machine.
Yashimoto at once announced that he would go down to the control-room.