‘I see.’ Barratt was silent, deep in thought. After a while he said, ‘I wonder what the devil something like that could be?’ Then he was all action again. ‘Let’s get back into the catamaran. Time’s precious.’
About five minutes after they’d landed the moon came out and for the first time Corrigan saw the catamaran where they’d drawn it up against a rock ledge at the far end of the beach; the only indication of its presence was a mast looking like a bare tree pole, which was precisely what it had been before Katu cut it down for his craft.
Worrying about the moon, Corrigan paddled the skimmer close inshore where it wouldn’t be too visible. When he found a good place at the opposite end of the beach, he put the anchor over the side and the skimmer swung to in the lee of the rocks. He patted the bulging gunwale affectionately, thankful that the skimmer was all black rubber. That thought prompted another and he ran a hand lightly over his forehead. The sticky feel of the blacking was reassuring. The luminous dial of his watch showed 0217. If all went well the others would be back by 0430. Two and a quarter hours to wait. He yawned, wriggled into a more comfortable position on the bottom boards, his back against the skimmer’s side, his eyes on the beach. At regular intervals he put a hand over the side to feel the water. It was a ‘keep-alert’ drill he’d learnt on the beach at Sandport. He reckoned the water was just right. In the middle-seventies, probably. Great to be in the water right now, he decided, knowing it wasn’t possible. On the messdecks they said there was good swimming in Kilindini harbour; shark nets, floats, diving stages, the lot. He’d have to wait for that. They’d be there in a few days.
He wondered what would happen to him in Kilindini? Passage back to the States in a homeward-bound ship, survivor’s leave? Three weeks in Sandport? His watch told him it was November 23. With luck he might make it in time for Christmas at home. Great. The folks would like that. So would he. Three weeks’ leave. Jeez! Go places with Mary Lou. Take her down to New York. Maybe get married if her parents could be persuaded. Not likely, they weren’t keen. Said she was too young at eighteen. That was what they said, but it wasn’t what they meant. They’d told other folks in Sandport that she could do better for herself than marry a lifeguard. How better? Something up market — like a bond salesman?
He could hear the mosquitoes buzzing around but they weren’t worrying him like usual. The blacking, he supposed. He yawned, dipped a hand in the water once more, sprayed his face with it. He wasn’t tired, he’d had a good rest in the afternoon. The Captain had made all the shore party do that.
The trouble now was lack of movement. He shifted his position on the bottom-boards, moved a couple of feet forward. Thinking about the Captain sent him off on another track. Barratt was a nice guy. Quiet but tough and determined, he reckoned. Good man to be with in a bad situation. They’d told him on the messdecks about his wife dying in Changi Gaol. That explained a lot. Why they both felt the same way about the Japs. Branded on his mind, the nightmarish recollection passed before his eyes like a film on a big screen: the dark bulk of the submarine cutting through the water, the cold glare of the searchlight sweeping the sea, settling on the huddled shapes, the tracer bullets racing towards them, kicking up spurts of foam to find the range before smacking into the white faces in the water. Jesus, he thought. Only three nights back. Unbelievable that it had happened only three nights back.
He looked at his watch again — 0232 — wondered how the shore party was getting on. Had they found anything? The big whale? No way of telling. Just have to wait. There wasn’t much action for him sitting there in the skimmer. He’d rather have been with the guys on shore. But at least he was involved now, and the Captain had chosen him for the job when there were plenty of others in the ship who reckoned they were better qualified. So luck was on his side, and it was early days yet. If the submarine was there things were going to happen, and whatever they were he was likely to be in on them.
The moon drifted behind the clouds. He was glad of that. It was good for the men ashore — and good for him. A seabird called, a sudden shrill cry, the first sound he’d heard for a long time other than the constant lap and murmur of the sea.
Twenty
That night Yashimoto ordered the Navigating Officer to complete his chart of the island with lines of soundings in the creek and through the narrows. When Sato had gone, he wrote up his report on the trial and punishment of AB Awa.
The shore parties returned on board an hour after midnight bringing with them a casualty: a seaman had gashed his thigh with a panga. Yashimoto suspected a self-inflicted wound; a ploy to escape the gruelling work of cutting timber in a tropical jungle on a sultry night. But the wound was so severe, and the men who had witnessed the incident so certain that it was caused by a branch which had deflected the panga blade, that he accepted reluctantly that it was an accident. He administered an injection of morphine before sterilizing the wound with a red hot knife blade, whereafter he dressed and bound it.
Tired by a long and taxing day — it had included Awa’s execution — Yashimoto climbed on to his bunk and lay there with the reassuring thought that for the first time since the sinking of Fort Nebraska he could go to sleep knowing that for I-357 and her crew the outlook was good. Satugawa’s statement that flooding tests should be possible by sunset on the 24th was the prime reason for Yashimoto’s peace of mind. Another was the behaviour of the Catalinas; on neither the morning nor afternoon flights had they shown any particular interest in Creek Island. A final comforting thought was the certainty that sentries would now be at their most vigilant. Within forty-eight hours I-357 should be at sea again, bound for Mombasa to arrive in time for the attack on the British carrier. Once clear of Creek Island he would acknowledge
FOS’s signal, report I-357’s position and confirm that she would be on station in time.
After the attack he would set course for base. The thought of Penang conjured up attractive images, prominent among them the lovely face and shapely body of Masna. With that stimulating fantasy he fell into a sound sleep. It was not to end until he was called at seven-thirty in the morning in accordance with the instruction in his Night Order Book.
Katu led the slow, upward trudge across the slope of the hill with the others close on his heels. Thick bushes, rocks, loose stones and the steep incline made the going slow and the climbers sweat profusely. To these discomforts were added the attentions of countless insects which buzzed and protested as progress was made through the undergrowth. The shore party were about half way to the summit when the moon came through the clouds and the pace was quickened. Katu, never having approached the village except by way of the creek had, until then, been moving tentatively, feeling his way in the darkness, stopping at times to find a way round when thickets halted progress.
He and Morrow, brought up in the African bush, were adept at silent movement; McLean, too, excelled in this, though he’d learnt the art in a different environment. Barratt was the amateur of the party, and each time he trod on a dry twig or displaced a loose stone he cursed under his breath. The slow, upward journey across the slope had taken almost half an hour when they reached a clearing from which could be seen the moonlit tops of trees on the far side of the hill. Katu stopped, waited for Morrow to catch up. ‘We will come to the village by following the ravine,’ he explained. ‘That way we will not be seen because the trees are thick behind the huts.’ He pointed ahead to a clump of tall casuarinas. ‘The top of the ravine is behind those trees. Not far now.’