Captain (D) lifted himself out of the chair. Head up, hands clasped behind his back, he walked to the french windows. ‘Well, that decides it. We’ll pull him in.’ He looked over his shoulder to the signal desk. ‘Pam, take a signal.’ The Wren said, ‘Aye, aye, sir,’ arranged a signal pad in front of her, picked up a pencil, patted her hair, smiled expectantly.
Unclasping his hands Captain (D) scratched the back of his neck, looked thoughtful and began. ‘To Restless repeat Deputy C-in-C and RAFHQ, from Captain (D). Message begins — Return to base forthwith. Acknowledge — message ends.’
‘That should see him here by daylight on the 24th.’ The SOO looked at the wall-clock. It showed 1853. ‘I expect he’ll have some sort of story to tell.’
‘It’d better be a good one.’ Captain (D)’s eyebrows bunched in a threatening manner, one quite out of keeping with his genial nature. ‘Well, I must organize my sundowner,’ he said. On his way to the door he glared disapproval at the ancient punkah which squeaked intermittently as it flapped. ‘Sounds like a gull trying to take off after it’s eaten too much,’ he said. ‘Do get somebody to oil the ruddy thing.’
At the far end of the room Second Officer Camilla Lacey WRNS raised limpid blue eyes from the operations log she’d been entering. ‘We’ve reported it to the Fleet Engineer’s office, sir,’ she said.
‘Good heavens! Can’t somebody get up there with a can of Three-in-One? I wouldn’t have thought it was an engineering job.’
Hutchison looked up at the punkah, waved a dismissive hand. ‘I’ll see to it, sir,’ he said airily.
When Captain (D) had gone he went across to Camilla’s desk. ‘I’m no good at heights.’ He spoke in an undertone. ‘But I’ll be happy to hold the ladder if you’ll go up.’
‘I’m sure you will, Flight Lieutenant Hutchison RAF — but I won’t.’
‘Oh, well. Can’t win ’em all.’ He managed an exaggerated sigh before going back to the operations table.
By evening forbidding clouds had massed above the creek, shutting out the sun and hastening the coming of night. On Yashimoto’s orders repair work had ceased at sunset, to be resumed only when he gave the word. In the absence of the now familiar banging and clattering the only sounds were those of the submarine’s auxiliary machinery, for there was an otherwise strange silence in I-357 where men sat about in twos and threes, waiting in sombre mood for what was to come.
Before the time of sunset Lieutenant Sato had gone to the search receiver cabinet where the prisoner had been placed after sentence was passed. The Lieutenant waved aside the armed sentry at its entrance and entered the cabinet. Able Seaman Awa was sitting on the operator’s stool, head in hands, his back to the entrance, his elbows on the wooden ledge beneath the instruments.
‘Able Seaman Awa,’ Sato called. The young man turned, his eyes red, the flesh round them swollen. In spite of the heat he was shivering. Sato put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Have courage. You go to a far better place.’ He spoke softly. ‘Your ancestors will be there waiting for you. With them you will find eternal peace.’
There was scarcely room for one person in the cabinet, and with the Lieutenant standing in its entrance, any view those in the control-room might otherwise have had of Awa was blocked.
‘I have come’, continued Sato, ‘to ask if you have any messages for your family. I shall be writing to them.’ He lowered his voice to almost a whisper. ‘You may be sure I will speak well of you, Awa. You have been a good man.’
In a broken voice Awa said, ‘Please tell my mother and father and my sisters that I love them — I think of them always — ’ His voice petered out and he began to sob.
‘I will do that.’ The Lieutenant reached out, took Awa’s right hand in a firm grasp. It seemed to Sato moist, limp and lifeless as he pressed the sedative tablets into it. Continuing to whisper, he said, ‘I see you have water here, Awa. Swallow these now. They will help you.’
Awa withdrew his hand, turned once more to the instrument panel. He took the mug of water from the ledge with one hand while the other went to his mouth.
Once again the Lieutenant placed his hand on the prisoner’s shoulder. ‘I will be with you until the end, Awa. May Buddha bless you.’
It was not long before the shrill whistle of a boatswain’s call was followed by the Coxswain’s voice: ‘Men detailed for ceremonial and special duties muster on shore.’
Shafts of moonlight shone through shifting cloud patterns as the cortege led by the sturdy figure of Togo Yashimoto, followed by the First Lieutenant, the Engineer Officer and Gunnery Officer, made its way through the trees. In spite of the heat all wore their formal uniforms as they marched, the officers with sheathed swords at the carry.
They were followed in turn by a ceremonial party of twelve ratings drawn from different departments, their rifles at the slope. Ahead of them marched the Coxswain, Yoza Okudo, carrying an unsheathed naval cutlass over his shoulder.
Led by Lieutenant Sato, the prisoner and armed escort followed the ceremonial party. Behind them came four petty officers headed by the Chief Engine Room Artificer. The rear was brought up by four ratings carrying signal torches, and two men marching in tandem with a folded stretcher over their shoulders. Yashimoto’s attention to detail had been meticulous.
From the assembly point abreast the submarine, the Captain led his men through the trees bordering the creek to a small clearing opposite the bluff. Calling the procession to a halt, he ordered the torchbearers to stand at the four corners of a square which had been marked with stakes earlier in the afternoon. The ceremonial party then took station facing each other on two sides of the square. Yashimoto, his officers and the Coxswain marched between them to the far end to form the third side, while the petty officers under Hayeto Shimada completed the square, its corners now marked by the blue lights of the signal torches.
The prisoner and his escorts marched into the square and halted at its centre. Lieutenant Sato took up his position to the right of the condemned man.
At Yashimoto’s command, ‘The prisoner will kneel,’ Awa, wearing shorts and a vest, his hands handcuffed behind his back, was assisted into a kneeling position by the escorts who bent his shoulders forward until he faced the ground. As he knelt he had given a last despairing look towards Sato, but the Lieutenant had already closed his eyes.
Yashimoto nodded to Kagumi. ‘Carry on, First Lieutenant,’ he ordered.
The First Lieutenant spoke over his shoulder to the Coxswain who stood a few paces behind him. ‘Proceed with your duty, Coxswain,’ he said in a firm voice.
With the cutlass slanted over his shoulder the Coxswain marched to the centre of the square. There he stopped, facing the left hand side of the kneeling figure. With legs apart and both hands on its hilt he lifted the cutlass high above his head.
The moon rode clear of the clouds to reveal Yashimoto standing rigidly at attention, bearded chin out-thrust, dark eyes staring ahead. He raised his right arm with the stiff movement of an automaton, held it aloft, then dropped it sharply. Reflecting the light of the moon, the cutlass described a gleaming arc, the dull thud of cleavage scarcely audible as the prisoner’s head fell from his body and rolled to one side. The corpse collapsed in a twitching heap and the moon, as if satisfied that justice had been done, withdrew once more behind the clouds.