Restless was sighted at about the time the first pale light of dawn appeared in the eastern sky. Not long afterwards the skimmer and catamaran were alongside. Their occupants clambered on board, tired and bedraggled but exultant, their blackened faces streaked with sweat. The catamaran and skimmer were hoisted, Barratt went to the bridge, engine-room telegraphs rang, the note of the turbines rose, and the destroyer began once again to cut through the warm waters of the Mozambique Channel.
Twenty-two
Refreshed by undisturbed sleep Yashimoto washed in the handbasin in his cabin — thanks to the village spring the daily allowance of fresh water had been doubled — pulled on shorts, a vest and canvas shoes, and went to the wardroom where he ate his customary but frugal breakfast, a handful of rice and a cup of black tea. His first stop after the meal was at the chart-table in the control-room where he checked the times of moonrise and set printed on the slate in Sato’s neat hand.
He is certainly a good navigating officer, conceded Yashimoto, conscientious and reliable, yet I don’t really like him. It is not what he says but the way he looks at me, that critical light in his eyes, the mouth slightly twisted. Oh no, it’s not what he says, it’s what he thinks that worries me. These wartime officers, some of them university graduates like Sato, lack the naval outlook. They’ve not been brought up in the samurai tradition, their minds are filled with philosophical abstractions, many of them Western in origin. He shrugged away the unpleasant train of thought; there were more important things to worry about than Sato’s shortcomings. The progress of repairs, the programme for the flooding tests, the disposal of the sick and wounded before departure. The moon would rise at about nine o’clock on the 24th, setting some twelve hours later. If the sky were not clouded it would help him take the submarine out of the creek. But for a line of sandbanks to the north-east of the entrance the water was deep fairly close inshore. Once clear of the headlands he would be able to dive if necessary, though he intended running on the surface until dawn in order to make good time to Mombasa.
It was still less than three days since he’d sunk the Fort Nebraska, yet so many things had happened that he thought of that incident as being much longer ago, more like weeks than days. His thoughts turned to the latest problem; Kagumi had come to his cabin that morning with bad news: a mechanician had collapsed with a high temperature and hallucinations; another case of malaria, bringing the total to three. There was no sick-bay in the submarine, nor any other facilities for nursing the sick. For those reasons he had decided it would not be practical to keep them on board for the long journey back to Penang. Other arrangements had to be made. He had not yet told Kagumi, but that would be attended to later in the day.
Attracted by the sound of men at work in the conning-tower, the source of his major problem, he went to the ladder and looked up. A man stripped to the waist was kneeling astride the hatch crouched over an electric drill, its high whine deafening as it bit into the steel. The Captain called out, ‘Good morning, Taisho.’
The engineroom artificer stopped the drill, looked down. ‘Sir?’
Yashimoto said, ‘Work going well, I trust?’
The frown left the artificer’s sweat-streaked face. ‘Yes, sir. The coaming should be ready to take the lid by sunset.’ ‘And the lid? I see it’s not in place.’
‘At the foundry, sir. There’s more to be done to make it the way it should be. The Chief ERA says it must be back on board for fitting and testing soon after sunset.’
A humming sound came from outside the conning-tower, followed by an abrasive screech. ‘What’s that, Taisho?’ Yashimoto had to shout to be heard.
‘They’re working on the damage at the foot of the conning-tower wall. The angled plates are ready for bolting on. They’re trimming up. Getting rid of rough spots on the surface around the broken metal.’
‘H’m,’ Yashimoto grunted. ‘Still a lot of work to do then?’ ‘Much has already been done, sir. We should be ready for pressure tests by tomorrow evening.’ The ERA’S confident
tone heartened Yashimoto. With men like these, he thought, everything’s possible. He was about to go to the fore-ends to see how the sick and wounded were getting on when the Navigating Officer appeared.
‘I have completed the chart, sir.’ He handed it to the Captain. ‘Petty Officer Nomura and a seaman came with me in the catamaran last night. There was a good deal of moonlight during the first part of the night. Otherwise accurate fixes would have been difficult.’
Yashimoto placed the chart on the table, switched on the light. He spent some time studying Sato’s plan of Creek Island, now neatly studded with soundings.
The Captain looked up at him, smiled approval. ‘Very good. This will be a great help. I see the sandbanks extend further west than we’d thought. That means a ninety degree turn soon after clearing the mouth of the creek.’
‘Yes, sir. There’s not much room to spare, though plenty of water if you keep to the channel I’ve plotted.’
‘What was the tide doing when you took these soundings?’ ‘It was rising, sir. Two hours of high water. But I’ve allowed for that. The depths plotted are for mean low water.’ Yashimoto’s head moved up and down, slowly, very deliberately. ‘So, at midnight tomorrow, what margin will I have in the basin?’
Sato looked at the chart over the Captain’s shoulder, thought for a moment. ‘About a metre more than the plotted depths. Say an average depth of thirty metres around its centre.’
‘That should be sufficient for the tests. We can always boost the pressure by pumping compressed air into the tower.’ Yashimoto patted the Navigating Officer’s shoulder. ‘Creek Island has been good to us, Ishii Sato. Strange — but fortunate — that the basin should have water so much deeper than the narrows.’
‘Not really, sir.’ Sato was mildly shocked by the Captain’s unusual familiarity. Yashimoto had never before used his first name, nor touched him physically. ‘The island is volcanic in origin,’ he went on. ‘The basin is the old crater. Its rim the steep hills around it. One would expect depth in the centre.’
Yashimoto frowned but said nothing. To him Sato’s remark, accompanied by the crooked lip smile, smacked of condescension — one would expect. Indeed! But the Navigating Officer had produced a most useful chart and it was not the moment to rebuke him. The Captain decided to let the matter pass.
Before Yashimoto could carry out his intention of visiting the fore-ends, the Engineer Officer and Hayeto Shimada, the Chief ERA, came into the control-room. Stripped to the waist, both men looked near to exhaustion, their faces grimy and perspiring, dark shadows under their eyes. Yashimoto knew that they had worked through the night for the last three nights, snatching what rest they could during the day — and that was not much.
‘All going well, Chief?’ he asked Satugawa.
The Engineer Officer nodded. ‘Progress is satisfactory, sir. We go back to the foundry shortly. It is necessary to get something to eat.’ He put his hand to his mouth to hide a yawn. ‘Sorry,’ he smiled apologetically. ‘It’s the heat. Makes a man tired.’
‘Work and heat,’ corrected the Captain. ‘And lack of sleep.’
Satugawa shrugged. ‘The work has to be done, Captain. There is no other way.’
‘I know.’ Yashimoto sighed. ‘We all suffer from lack of sleep. But that will soon change.’