By eight o’clock that night those members of the crew who attended the execution had resumed their normal duties; for some it was with the foliage and camouflage parties; for others it was sentry duty; and for the rest, duties on board.
The prisoner’s corpse, its head beside it, had been carried down to the bluff on a stretcher, loaded into a motorized catamaran and taken out to sea where it was dumped beyond the headland east of the creek. No ceremony, no last rites, accompanied the disposal of Able Seaman Awa’s remains; there was, however, some concern that the head, not weighted with a large stone as was the body, had remained afloat until retrieved; to be weighted then with a shackle, whereafter it sank quietly into the sea.
Not that Awa had been forgotten, nor was likely to be; the affair was too dramatic, too recent for that. As it was, his execution was the subject of whispered discussion among the crew, ashore and afloat, for most of that night. Those who had not witnessed it, and they were in the majority, asked in awesome undertones for details: how had Awa behaved at the end? Had the Coxswain severed the head with a clean blow? Was there much blood? What was the Captain’s demeanour? These and many other questions were put and answered during a long night.
Togo Yashimoto, but for Saigo Awa the principal character in the drama, had in the solitude of his cabin spent some time kneeling before the Shinto shrine. Dressed in a ceremonial white kimono, he had addressed his prayers variously to the Emperor, the Gods of Nature, Buddha and Awa’s ancestors, consigning the young man’s soul to their safe keeping that he might find eternal peace. For himself he asked only for guidance in the difficult task of safeguarding I-357 and her crew so that they might continue to wage war on behalf of the Emperor, for the greater glory of the Imperial Japanese
Navy and the Empire it served. Of one thing he was certain — with or without divine assistance, there was no longer any danger of sentries sleeping at their posts.
Seventeen
Barratt lay on the bunk in his sea-cabin staring at the single red light in the deckhead. It was there because the human eye adjusted more quickly to darkness after red light than after white — and that was important to destroyer captains in wartime whose nights involved many sudden visits to the bridge. He had always found the cabin depressing — the dog-box he called it — but his mood this night was more one of frustration and anger than depression. It had been triggered by Captain (D)’s signal ordering Restless to return forthwith, and made worse by the peremptory acknowledge. He had no intention of returning to Kilindini forthwith, nor of acknowledging the signal. This, he knew, was insubordination but on receiving the signal his decision had been immediate and instinctive.
Handing it back to the CPO Telegraphist he had said, ‘Wireless silence is to be maintained, Duckworth.’
Duckworth’s expression was one of disbelief. ‘We are ordered to acknowledge, sir.’
‘I expressly forbid that, Duckworth. We will continue to observe W/T silence. The responsibility is mine, not yours.’ There was unusual severity in the Captain’s tone. He liked Duckworth, but having made his decision he was not going to have it challenged by the telegraphist, or anyone else for that matter.
Duckworth had looked at him in silence for a moment before shaking his head and leaving the sea-cabin.
Barratt was quite clear in his own mind as to what he was doing, the risks he was taking. His decision could involve him in a court-martial; dismissal from the Service perhaps, or at least dismissal from his ship. He was prepared to take those risks. After all he was a dug-out who’d go back to the family wine business when the War was over, not a career officer. The knowledge had, not unnaturally, influenced him. The more he thought about Katu and Mahmoud’s stories, the more he began to feel there was now a real chance of finding the submarine. He was in no mood to forego the opportunity to investigate the creek at Maji Island that night. To return forthwith would involve just that- to acknowledge could disclose Restless's position to the Japanese. A reply to Captain (D)’s signal would have to wait until daylight.
Having once again thought through the problem he looked at the luminous dial of the cabin clock. It showed 1927. Time to get on with plans for the night.
The Captain’s day-cabin, large, spacious and within easy reach of the bridge, was unusually crowded. Barratt had swung his desk chair round so that he could face the others; Charlie Dodds was at the dining-table with the chart, Peter Morrow and Katu sat together at his side, while the First Lieutenant was on the settee with Geoffrey Lawson.
This is the outline scenario for tonight,’ explained Barratt, a certain tenseness in his manner. ‘We’ll reach the coast ten miles south of Cape Ulu at 2300. That right, Pilot?’ He looked across to Dodds.
‘Yes, sir. I’ve plotted the position. Six miles WSW of a nameless speck on the chart which, from what Katu says, seems likely to be Maji Island. We’ll close the coast from the south, passing in north of the Vadiazi Shoal. There’s a channel there with sufficient water at low tide to get us within a mile of the coast.’
‘Thank you, Pilot. Next point. We’re experiencing typical Doldrums weather. Calm sea, mild breeze, barometer steady on FAIR. A threat of rain perhaps.’ Barratt looked at his notes. ‘Pilot tells me — and he’d better be right — ’ the Captain favoured Dodds with a theatrical glare ‘- that the moon rises at about eight tonight and sets shortly before seven in the morning. That can be helpful in some ways, but a bloody nuisance in others. Fortunately there’s a lot of cloud about so hopefully we’ll have some help from that. Without navigation lights, with the coastline as background, and radar and ping shut down, Restless shouldn’t be easy to spot. It’ll be a useful test of the camouflage Simonstown’s painted all over us. Never liked it myself. Bit too Picasso, I’d say.’ He stopped, took a silver cigarette case from his pocket, looked at it and put it away again. ‘Now I intend to take the ship no closer to the island than three miles but it’ll depend on the moon. At about that distance we’ll lower the motorboat and skimmer plus Katu’s catamaran.’ He glanced at Dodds. ‘Got his okay on that, Morrow?’
The Sub-Lieutenant said, ‘Yes, sir. After a bit of an argy bargy. Your promise fixed it. A new one if we lose his.’ ‘Quite a businessman your Katu, isn’t he?’ Barratt smiled at the African who smiled back though he couldn’t understand a word of the conversation.
‘Very reasonable chap really,’ defended Morrow.
‘Right. Now let’s get back to Operation Map' Barratt looked once more at his notes. ‘The shore party will consist of Katu, Peter Morrow, Brad Corrigan and Angus McLean the signalman.’
‘Corrigan, sir?’ The First Lieutenant appeared to be mildly shocked. ‘The Fort N survivor?’
‘None other,’ said the Captain firmly. ‘He says he wants to be involved. So involved he’s going to be. Brought up on boats, useful man in the water, and he has an account to settle with the Japanese.’
‘But he’s not RN, sir. Isn’t that a problem?’
‘He’s US Navy, Number One. Seconded by me to the Royal Navy as from now. Any objections?’ Barratt’s brighteyed stare was accompanied by a three finger drumming on the wooden arms of the desk chair.
The First Lieutenant changed the subject. ‘So there’ll be four in the shore party?’
‘No. Five.’