By eight o’clock in the morning when the watches changed, the motorboat had visited most of the islands off Cape Ulu without success; in that time the skimmer had questioned the occupants of catamarans fishing off the shoals and reefs in the channels. The skimmer, like the motorboat, drew nothing but blanks, but the search went on.
In early afternoon the skimmer was sighted coming in from the direction of Tambuzi Island with something in tow. When nearer the tow could be seen to be a catamaran. ‘What on earth’s that all about?’ exclaimed Barratt who was watching through binoculars. The skimmer and its tow drew closer until a solitary African could be seen sitting in the catamaran’s sternsheets steering with a paddle. The sizeable bow-wave made by the makeshift craft and its outrigger suggested that it was travelling a lot faster than usual. The crew of the inflatable, clad only in shorts, their tanned bodies almost as brown as the African’s, grinned happily as the skimmer and its tow turned in a wide circle before edging in towards the destroyer. A painter was made fast and with the skimmer and catamaran safely alongside, Peter Morrow came up a rope ladder on to the deck where the hoisting party was standing by. ‘Keep this lot towing alongside, Chief, while I report to the bridge,’ he called over his shoulder to the Bosun’s Mate as he made for the fo’c’sle ladder. Moments later he arrived breathless on the bridge.
‘What’s that catamaran doing alongside?’ Barratt shot at him.
Side-stepping the Captain’s question, Morrow said, ‘Permission to hoist the skimmer and catamaran, sir.’
‘The catamaran, why?’
‘I’ve made a deal with Katu, its owner, sir. The African sitting in it.’
‘What sort of deal?’
‘Clothing, tobacco, food. That sort of thing, sir. All barter, no cash. He’s agreed to spend the afternoon with us if we’ll hoist his catamaran on board and return him with it to these fishing grounds this evening.’
‘May I ask why he should spend the afternoon with us?’
Looking rather pleased with himself, Morrow said, ‘I think he may know something about the submarine, sir. It’s a long story. He can’t be rushed. I’m afraid this is the only way to handle it. Can I bring him on board and get on with the hoisting?’
With sudden decision Barratt said, ‘Yes. In double quick time. When that’s done, bring him to the chartroom.’
With its owner in attendance, fussing lest it be damaged, the catamaran was hoisted and stowed forward of the afterscreen, the mast and outrigger unshipped and placed alongside it.
In Kiswahili, Peter Morrow spoke to the African. ‘Come with me now, Katu. We go to the Bwana M’Kubwa. First we talk with him, then I give you the clothes, the food in the tins, and the tobacco.’
Katu looked about him uncertainly before following the Sub-Lieutenant along the iron deck, the African’s lean muscular body, naked but for a loincloth, shining like oiled mahogany.
They went up to the chartroom where the Navigating Officer was watching the echo-sounder, a pencil between his teeth and a frown on his forehead.
Morrow said, ‘You wait here one minute, Katu. I go fetch Bwana M’Kubwa.’
The shore parties had returned on board well before sunrise on 22 November, the beginning of the submarine’s second day in the creek. With five more hours of darkness available than on the first night, the frenzied work rate of that occasion was no longer necessary. The cutting of foliage and brushwood had been more selective, more deliberate, and by two o’clock in the morning all that was needed had been cut and carried down to the submarine. Bright moonlight through most of the night helped to get the work done in good time.
Some two hours after cutting had ceased the men working on the casing under the Engineer Officer had finished laying and placing new material to camouflage the submarine. Among other things they had replaced the trees on the conning-tower and over the gun-platform with fresh ones.
The sun which had been overhead for so many hours during the preceding day had dried most of the foliage, the leaves curling and fading under its heat. Yashimoto had insisted that the old foliage should not be removed. Tut the freshly cut stuff on top of it,’ he said. ‘Build irregular mounds and leave gaps where the colour of the withered leaves will break up the uniformity. That way you create a camouflage which looks even more natural.’
Daylight proved the Captain’s point. The long, foliage-covered mound, lumpy and irregular with trees ‘growing’ upon it, now merged with the wooded banks of the creek more convincingly than before.
On his return from a visit to the Africans’ huts, the First Lieutenant had reported that the camouflage was particularly good when seen from the opposite bank.
Kagumi had gone over to the settlement at eight o’clock that morning to see the Headman, and to return the African he had brought back the day before in the hope that he and Hasumu might understand each other. That hope had not materialized. ‘He speaks a language he calls Fanaglo,’ Hasumu had reported to the First Lieutenant. ‘At least the word sounds like that. From his attempts to explain by mimicry, I think it may be the language of the mine labourers and their white overseers. It is definitely not English. Though mine is poor I know enough to be sure of that.’
The main purpose of Kagumi’s visit had, however, been to talk to the Headman about an incident which had occurred during the previous night: Lieutenant Matsuhito, the officer responsible for sentries had, in the course of his rounds at midnight, checked on the men detailed to patrol the boundaries of the little settlement and guard the catamarans drawn up on the beach near the huts. He had found one of the men asleep in a drunken stupor. Having formally arrested the man, Matsuhito replaced him with one of the catamaran’s crew. The offender was brought back to I-357 and placed in his bunk, his wrists handcuffed to its rail.
Within the limitations of sign language, in which he was becoming increasingly proficient, Kagumi had discussed the incident with the Headman. What he had gleaned from the grey-haired old African would be given in evidence later in the morning when the Captain dealt with members of the crew brought before him as defaulters. That weekly disciplinary ritual was two days late, having been deferred by the pressure of events.
With the use of a photograph from an illustrated Japanese periodical, Hasumu had learnt from the African who had spent the night on board that there were no sharks in the creek; presumably the currents, the sandbars outside the entrance, and the rich harvest of fish off the shoals and reefs were responsible for that. It was evident that he was right, because a number of African children had been seen swimming from the beach in front of the huts that morning.
After a discussion with Yashimoto about the prisoner who would be appearing at Captain’s Defaulters later that morning, Kagumi raised the question of swimming; might it not be possible, he asked, to permit a limited number of men to swim at certain times under controlled conditions?
Without hesitation Yashimoto had turned down the suggestion. ‘Under no circumstances,’ he said, his tone and expression indicating displeasure. ‘By day it is out of the question. We could not risk having men in the water anywhere near the boat. At night the same applies. The beach where the Africans bathe is in front of the huts. Even if we wished to, how many men could we ferry over there? How soon could we get them back in an emergency? Catalinas patrol at night. We know that from our experience in the Mozambique Channel. An aircraft might drop a flare over the creek.’ Yashimoto shook his head vigorously. ‘I cannot permit swimming. A supply of fresh water was brought on board last night. Each man can now have a bucketful a day. That is luxury enough, Kagumi. We are at war.’