While he respected the Captain’s ability, his skill in matters concerning seamanship, submarine handling and naval warfare, he had long been critical of his bland refusal to acknowledge, or perhaps understand, the problems of the engineroom.
Detecting the change in Satugawa’s attitude, Yashimoto adopted a more conciliatory tone. ‘So — about the hatch, Chief? You said the flange on the lid was buckled and there was distortion. Tell me about this?’
‘It is the problem of restoring the lid to its designed shape. At least sufficiently to get it shut with a reasonably effective seal. The pumps can deal with normal leaks, but not with bad ones at depth. I don’t think it will be too difficult to get a passable seal. We have already made some progress with trueing up the lid. The real problem is the hinge. We have to build up a new one by cannibalizing certain engine parts, then fix it to the lid. With the restricted equipment we have, that is going to take time.’
‘How much time?’
Satugawa looked the Captain squarely in the face. ‘I don’t know. All I can guarantee is that we will do everything possible to finish on time. All being well we should be able to carry out flooding tests by sunset on the 24th.’
Yashimoto smiled, his eyes softened, and he leant forward to give the Engineer Officer’s shoulder a playful slap. ‘That’s what I wanted to hear from you, Chief. You keep the best news for last, you old rascal.’
Satugawa relaxed, realized that the confrontation was at an end. He leant back against the bulkhead. ‘I did say, all being well, Captain.’
Yashimoto got up, took a bunch of keys from his pocket and opened a cupboard under the bunk. From it he took a bottle of saki and two small cups, handpainted with flowers. ‘You know I never drink at sea, Chief. But we are in harbour now and we have something to celebrate.’ He put the cups on the desk top and filled them. Passing one to the Engineer Officer, he raised his own. ‘To I-357 and all who sail in her,’ he said, bowing gravely.
Satugawa returned the bow before putting the cup to his lips. Having drunk from it, he held it away to examine the pattern. ‘These are beautifully decorated, Captain,’ he said. ‘Where did you get them?’
‘My wife’s work. She is a talented woman. Not only at painting. Her flower arrangements have won many prizes, and her garden is much admired. When I am worried, when the harsh realities of war trouble me, I like to think of her arranging flowers and working in her garden.’ He looked away, sighed. ‘It is the gentle, beautiful things of life which bring peace to a man’s soul.’
‘Quite so.’ The Engineer Officer sipped the saki, in his mind a picture of Able Seaman Awa’s severed head bouncing away from the stump of a neck which squirted blood — little jets of it, silvered by moonlight.
Nineteen
The atmosphere in the operations room in Kilindini was uncomfortable, less because the punkah was no match for the humid heat of equatorial night than for the failure of Restless to acknowledge the recall signal. Perspiring freely, elbows on the desk, Captain (D) mopped his face with a moist handkerchief. ‘I simply cannot understand Barratt’s failure to acknowledge,’ he wheezed.
‘Perhaps his transmitter’s gone on the blink,’ suggested Hutchison.
Captain (D) directed a frosty look at the Flight Lieutenant. ‘Destroyers have several transmitters, generators and backup systems. The only time they can’t transmit is when they’ve sunk.’
The SOO tugged at an earlobe, looked gloomily down the length of his unusually long nose. ‘Remarkably like insubordination, I’d say. Been drinking perhaps. Had-dingham said Barratt’s scrapes were usually associated with that sort of thing.’
‘May I say something, sir?’ The question came from the RNVR Lieutenant at the operations table.
Captain (D), checking the file copy of the unanswered signal for possible ambiguity looked up in surprise. ‘Yes, Jakes. Of course. What?’
‘Well, sir, it’s a little awkward but I…’ he hesitated. ‘I wondered if Lieutenant Commander Barratt might not be the victim of a compulsive obsession.’
Captain (D) frowned. ‘What on earth are you talking about, Jakes?’
‘It’s a psychiatric disorder, sir. Can be brought on by shock though it’s normally deep-seated and chronic:’
‘Good God, Jakes.’ Captain (D) looked at the Lieutenant in dismay. ‘Don’t tell me you’re one of those.’
‘No, sir. But in the club a few days ago I read an article on the subject in a periodical. Now I wonder if his wife’s death, plus the massacre of Fort Nebraska's crew… if the shock of those could have triggered a compulsive obsession.’ ‘To disregard signals, I presume.’ The SOO gave another imitation of a pelican looking down its beak.
Jakes shook his head. ‘To find and destroy the Japanese submarine.’
‘You may be right, Jakes. But this is an operations room of the Royal Navy not, thank God, a psychiatric ward.’ Captain (D)’s cheeks bulged as if building up a powerful head of steam. ‘Restless has failed to acknowledge her recall, dammit,’ he exploded. ‘She’s required here in advance of the carrier’s arrival. The Chief Staff Officer tells me he will have to report this to the Admiral if we’ve not heard from Barratt by midnight. That is exactly one hour away. For his sake I hope we do hear from him by then.’
It was after Captain (D) and the SOO had left the operations room that Camilla flounced across to Jake’s desk. ‘I heard all that,’ she said with a disapproving twitch of her nose. ‘Makes me angry. Why can’t they give the poor man a chance? He must have a good reason for not replying to their signals. Why not give him the benefit of the doubt?’
‘What doubt?’ Jake’s voice was flat.
‘Oh, you men! Why not assume that he knows what he’s doing? He probably knows where the submarine is. Believes that in a day or so it’ll put to sea. It may be in some small harbour or inlet on the Mozambique coast. In neutral territory, so he’s hanging around waiting for the wretched thing to come out. But he knows it won’t if the Japs know he’s there. Hence wireless silence.’
‘If he knows where it is, why doesn’t he tell us?’
‘I’ve just told you why.’ Camilla’s voice did its best to reflect despair.
‘You’ve heard my theory, Camilla.’
‘Your Reader's Digest quote?’
‘It wasn’t the Reader's Digest as it happens.’
‘Well, whatever it was, I wasn’t impressed. Nor were Captain (D) and SOO. Restless's Number One is Sandy Hamilton. He wouldn’t go along with anything stupid like…’ She frowned, searching for the words. ‘… rank insubordination or whatever it was Old Gloomy called it. Sandy is a well-balanced, level-headed, ambitious, young naval officer.’
Jakes nodded, a half smile about his lips. ‘And, rumour has it, a certain lovely lady’s boy friend.’
‘He’s nothing of the sort,’ she flashed. ‘Simply a nice man who happens to be a good friend.’
Jakes beamed good-naturedly. ‘Who was seen with a certain young lady week-ending down the coast at the Tuna Inn?’
‘You horror. I don’t know why I bother to speak to you.’ Tossing her head with just the right touch of outraged dignity, she went back to her desk.
A light breeze from the shore ruffled the surface of the sea to help cool what would otherwise have been a humid, breathless night, with stars glittering brilliantly in a break in the southern sky. Against the dark background of the land Restless moved slowly through the water; without lights of any sort she was invisible but for the pools of phosphorescence which tumbled and glowed along her sides as the engines were put astern.