Toshida passed the range and bearing to the gun’s crew. ‘Standby for the order to open fire,’ he said. ‘When I give it, aim abaft the funnel. Knock out that wireless cabin.’
To the Captain he said, ‘I’ve got it, sir. Can’t make out any detail. Just a vague shape.’ He spoke without lowering his binoculars.
A flash of sheet lightning revealed for an instant the lumbering bulk of a cargo steamer ahead, smoke pouring from its funnel. In that brief glimpse those on the submarine’s bridge saw no signs of life round the freighter’s stern gun. A rumble of thunder was followed by large, single drops of rain which began to beat a wet tattoo on the bridge.
‘Liberty ship,’ snapped Yashimoto.
‘Range three five zero, sir,’ came from the hydrophone cabinet. There was thinly concealed excitement in the operator’s voice.
Yashimoto touched the Gunnery Officer’s arm. ‘Range three five zero. Open fire when you’re ready.’ He swore softly as the rain began to fall more heavily, misting the lenses of his binoculars. Another sheet of lightning was followed by a roll of thunder. It seemed to those on the bridge that a long time elapsed before Toshida’s voice broke the silence with the long expected order to open fire.
The flash and report of the four-inch gun sounded mute and inadequate after the more violent manifestations of the storm. With the shell whining its way across the water Yashimoto waited, tense, keyed up, watching the dim shape ahead as best he could through rain-streaked binoculars. A faint white plume in the darkness marked the shell’s fall short of the target. Three more rounds were fired before a burst of flame erupted from the midships superstructure of the Liberty ship.
‘Get more hits abaft the funnel,’ demanded Yashimoto. ‘Then knock out the stern gun.’ He spoke into the voice-pipe. ‘Revolutions for eight knots.’ Turning to the Coxswain he said, ‘Steer twenty degrees to starboard.’
Though the gunnery of defensively armed merchant ships was notoriously indifferent, and a trimmed-down submarine a difficult target, especially at night, Yashimoto had no intention of getting too close. With the range under 300 yards and still closing, he brought I-357’s bows round to starboard, reducing speed to maintain distance from the enemy ship. It had become a more visible target now, the shell having started a fire amidships. With the submarine falling off to starboard the barrel of its four-inch gun swung to port, holding the steamer steady in the gun-sight; this was happening so swiftly that within less than a minute of the first hit three more rounds had been fired, the first splashing to starboard of the freighter, the next two exploding on the superstructure abaft the funnel. A new sound broke into the night; the shrill hiss of escaping steam. A white plume, illuminated by the light from the fire, reached up from the Liberty ship’s funnel.
Lightning flashed once again and for the first time men could be seen round the freighter’s gun, its barrel trained on the submarine. ‘Shift target to stern-gun.’ Yashimoto’s shout was urgent. There was a clap of thunder, rain sluiced down, and in that moment an orange flash came from the enemy’s gun. A shell screeched towards I-357 and splashed into the sea beyond. ‘Port twenty,’ shouted Yashimoto. It was vital to present a smaller target.
The submarine’s sudden alteration of course, immediately after the unexpected arrival of the freighter’s shell, combined to confuse I-357’s gun-crew, their next two rounds falling well astern of the target. Toshida’s shouted corrections were drowned by another shell splash, this time raising a column of white water just short of I-357’s turning bows. It required several more rounds from the submarine before one exploded on the Liberty ship’s stern in a vivid sheet of flame. Despite the light from the fire amidships it was too dark to see what damage had been done, though it was soon evident that the stern gun had been silenced. The submarine’s last alteration of course having brought her out on the steamer’s port quarter, Yashimoto increased speed and altered course to starboard. The clatter of the diesels grew louder, the vibrations more pronounced and, as speed built up sheets of phosphorescent water thrown up by the submarine’s bows glittered brightly in the darkness. Yashimoto had increased speed in order to reach quickly a position from which the Liberty ship’s waterline would present an easy target. He was watching her through misted binoculars when the lightning came again. The barrel of her stern gun was still pointing to starboard, whereas I-357 was now on the ship’s port side. But he had seen something else in the brief moment of illumination, something which made him slap his thigh in sudden exaltation: around the enemy’s gun lay the prone bodies of its gun-crew; near them a jagged shell-hole showed in the steel screen at the base of the gun-platform. He shouted down to the gun’s crew. ‘Well done. You’ve taught those gum-chewing amateurs a lesson.’
A lamp began to wink from the Liberty ship’s bridge.
‘Answer them, Yeoman,’ commanded Yashimoto.
Takamori, the Yeoman of Signals, trained a signal lamp on the blinking light across the water, clicked out the international signal for proceed with your message.
The distant light began its reply.
While this exchange was taking place, Yashimoto ordered revolutions for eight knots and altered to starboard, so reducing the range and putting the submarine on a course parallel with the Liberty ship’s.
‘Standby to open fire again when I give the word,’ he warned Toshida. ‘Aim for the waterline. Five or six rounds should sink her.’
The Gunnery Officer passed the order to the gun’s crew who had kept the four-inch trained on the enemy ship throughout I-357’s manoeuvring.
Moving slowly to the south-east, the thunder and lightning continued unabated though the rain had ceased. Clad in cotton shorts and singlets the men on the bridge and gun-platform were drenched, but the night was humid and sultry and the air temperature still in the high-seventies. To be wet was no discomfort.
‘See that, sir?’ Toshida’s voice was urgent. In the light of the flames amidships the Liberty ship could be seen to be lowering a lifeboat.
Yashimoto called to the Yeoman, still busy with the signal lamp. ‘What’s he saying, Takamori?’ he demanded irritably. ‘We haven’t time to stay here talking.’
‘I cannot read him, sir,’ complained the Yeoman. ‘He signals badly — and in English.’
‘Then forget him. No doubt trying to tell us he’s abandoning ship.’
Toshida said, ‘Yes. The ship has almost stopped.’
‘Typical,’ said Yashimoto. ‘These western people fight in a contemptible fashion. Shoot to kill you until they know they have lost. Then they surrender. To save their wretched skins. They do not understand the way of the warrior.’
‘You are right, sir.’ Toshida was thinking that the dissertation was a long one for the Captain. ‘They talk of their God in Heaven, but they do not seem anxious to meet him.’ Yashimoto grunted assent. ‘Good. Enough time has been wasted. Now we set course for Mombasa.’ With a snort of derision, he added, ‘You’ll see real action there.’ He raised his binoculars again. ‘Open fire, Toshida.’
The gunlayer’s task was easier now at almost point blank range and with the hull amidships lit up by flickers of firelight. I-357’s gun flashed and banged and as if by magic a hole appeared in the freighter’s hull a few feet above the water. In less than a minute successive rounds had ripped a series of gashes along the waterline. The heavily laden ship began to list to port.