The Flight Lieutenant said, ‘None at all, sir. No problem. But I don’t understand.’
‘Good.’ The CSO smiled again. ‘I suggest that you, SOO, or Captain (D) if he’d prefer it, join the Catalina for tomorrow morning’s reconnaissance. It means an early start,’ he warned. ‘But if Restless is still down there the Catalina lands close to her, and you ask the destroyer to send across a boat. When it arrives you request transfer to Restless. You have orders from the Admiral which you have to deliver in person. Once on board you ask Barratt what the deuce he’s playing at.’ This time the CSO smiled with his teeth but not with his eyes. ‘If you’re dissatisfied with his reply you have my authority to relieve him of his command and hand it over to the First Lieutenant. You inform him that Restless is to return here forthwith and you remain in the ship to see that she does. You send Barratt back in the Catalina. I think that’s probably the best way of tackling a difficult situation.’
The SOO shifted in his chair, looked uncomfortable. T do think it would be more appropriate if Captain (D) went, sir.’
Captain (D)’s blue eyes twinkled with pleasure. T shall be absolutely delighted to do so,’ he said. ‘Always wanted to sample a Catalina.’
A phone on the SOO’s desk rang. He picked it up. ‘SOO speaking. Oh yes. Who from? DNI Whitehall. Good, let’s have it?’ The SOO directed a blank look at the faces round the table as he listened to the voice at the other end. ‘Very good. Thank you.’ He put down the phone. ‘That was Godley — Fleet Intelligence Officer. The reply from the Director of Naval Intelligence has come at last. His Portuguese oppo reports that there is no Japanese submarine in any Mozambique port. Nor has there been since the War began.’
Hutchison looked at the wall clock — 1115. Don Tuke would be taking off at noon. There was just time enough.
The hyper-active state of Barratt’s mind made sleep impossible and though close to exhaustion he abandoned the attempt not long after reaching the sea-cabin. Awake, he contemplated the deckhead above his pillow with tired eyes, seeing nothing but the red light and the pictures in his mind: the tree-covered submarine lying against the bank below the bluff, its bows, according to Aba Said’s father, facing the end of the narrows. The image of the Japanese Captain’s face, formerly that of the commandant of Changi Gaol, replaced the submarine; the slanted eyes arrogant, the hoarse voice mouthing absurd pidgin English: Boat is gleen like tlee — enemy think is cleek — bow tubes command nallows — high land plotects boat flom enemy bombs, also guns. So, English captain, what can you do? Nothing — you must wait.
Barratt cursed aloud. The imagery was so real, his anguish so fierce, that his body shook with emotion. There won’t be any forcing of the narrows, any attack from the air, my nasty little yellow man, but by God you’re going to pay for what you’ve done.
He dismissed the imaginary conversation, shook away the images: that sort of thing was silly, unnecessary, led nowhere. What was needed now was constructive thought. He got off the bunk, helped himself to a glass of water, sat on the settee thinking, his head buried in his hands. Within the next few minutes he’d made up his mind. What had been the beginnings of an idea ever since Operation Maji, began to take shape.
That, he said to himself, is how I shall do it.
‘You sent for me, sir?’ The First Lieutenant, stood in the doorway of the sea-cabin.
‘Yes.’ Barratt’s half smile enlivened an otherwise listless face, the eyes red with exhaustion. ‘I’m working on an idea, Number One. A plan of attack. If I can sort it into practical shape I’ll tell you about it. The time’s short, and there’s a lot to be done. To develop the idea I’ll have to chat to Taylor, to the TGM, the Coxswain, the Shipwright, Aba Said, Morrow and maybe others. I’ll see them in my day-cabin. There’s more room there. So don’t be disturbed by the various comings and goings. First two on my list are Taylor and the TGM. Get them to report to me there in ten minutes, will you?’
The First Lieutenant began to say something, but stopped in mid-sentence. After a moment of strained silence, the two men avoiding each other’s eyes, he said, ‘Aye, aye, sir,’ and went along the passageway. Barratt waited before following him down the ladder which led to the wardroom and officers’ accommodation.
‘That’s roughly what I have in mind.’ Barratt swung his chair round from the desk, handed a sheet of notepaper to the RNVR Lieutenant sitting on the settee near him.
Restless's Torpedo Officer, John Taylor, examined the rough pencil sketch before passing it to the Torpedo Gunner’s Mate who sat near him. ‘Doesn’t look too complicated, McGlashan. What d’you think?’
With a non-committal, ‘We’ll see, sir,’ the Petty Officer took the sketch. After a minute or so of frowning concentration he looked up. ‘A bit unusual, I’d say. But it should work.’
Barratt seemed pleased. ‘You’ll see from the notes I’ve made that the overall weight mustn’t exceed two hundred pounds. Any difficulty there?’
The TGM shook his head. ‘It means bleeding out about half the charge. But Amatol is stable enough. No problem there, sir.’
The Torpedo Officer agreed. ‘The buoyancy drum — size, rate of sinking, etcetera — is the only difficult part,’ he said. ‘And the primer will have to be modified. Both will involve a good deal of trial and error. We’ll need the motorboat for that.’
Barratt glanced at the clock on his desk. ‘You can have the motorboat and anything else you need, Taylor. But time is the essence of the contract. It’s now 0945. Report back to me if you have any serious problems. You should finish testing and have the thing ready by 1600. Think you can manage that?’
The Torpedo Officer turned to the TGM. ‘That gives us about six hours. We should have it ready well within that time. What d’you think, TGM?’
‘Aye, sir. We’ll have it ready.’
The note of confidence was sweet music to Barratt.
Next to be called to the day-cabin were the Shipwright, Petty Officer Trewhela, known to the ship’s company as ‘Chippy’ — and the Coxswain. Once again the Captain opened proceedings with a pencil sketch; the requirement this time was less exacting. ‘A sort of stretcher, made of wood,’ he explained.
‘It’s got to be strong enough for the job. Allow for rough handling, but keep the weight down.’
The Shipwright, a West Countryman with beetling eyebrows, tufts of hair growing from his cheekbones, and fierce dark eyes which belied his good nature said, ‘Leave it to me, sir. There’s no problem.’
‘I’d like you to see to the fastenings, Coxswain, and the release and flooding gear.’ Barratt took the sketch from the Shipwright, passed it to CPO Gibbs. The Coxswain studied it briefly. ‘Rope strops, Senhouse slips, toggles and lanyards. Should be straightforward.’
‘The handling will probably be in complete darkness. Keep the toggles and Senhouse slips plumb on top of the float where they can be found by feel.’
‘We’ll watch that, sir.’
‘Let me know if serious problems arise. I want you to have everything on the top line by 1600. All the bits and pieces — yours and the torpedo department’s — to be on deck for assembling by 1600, at which time report to me.’
‘Forward of the quarterdeck screen, sir?’ suggested the Coxswain.