He made for the bridge, the rain slapping into his face, its sizzling roar shutting out other sounds. By the time he reached the compass platform, drenched but determined, he’d made up his mind. ‘Port fifteen, revolutions for twenty knots,’ he ordered, raising his voice as he spoke down the voice-pipe. To Lawson he said, ‘A/S and radar to resume normal sweeps. Navigating Officer on the bridge, double quick.’
Lawson passed the orders to the A/S and radar cabinets, and to the wardroom.
Almost immediately the bridge-speaker began to relay the high pitched pings of asdic transmissions; the bridge radar repeater, the PPI, came to life, reflecting in green light the sweep of the scanner and the echoes it portrayed, an electronic picture of the coast and islands glowing and fading with each sweep.
A breathless, frowning Dodds arrived on the bridge. ‘Sir?’
‘I’m shifting the patrol line to the west,’ Barratt told him. ‘We’ll settle for a position from which we can cover the creek entrance by radar without being seen from the creek. According to Aba Said, the sandbanks immediately to the north-east of the entrance are awash at low water. The deeper water, the channel to Mocimboa da Praia, is several miles north of Maji. Aba Said has fished that area for years. From what he says the submarine, if it comes out, will have to head north-west and won’t be in water deep enough to dive to periscope depth for about a mile.’
‘Surely the Japs will see us, sir. Once we’re in position west of the entrance?’
‘There’s high land on either side. The headlands. We’ll have three miles and a headland between us and them.’
‘If they do see us I imagine they won’t come out?’ Dodds put his belief as a question, adding, ‘Knowing they’re protected by Portugal’s neutrality while in there.’
Barratt shrugged, said, ‘This rain shows no sign of stopping.’ Like everyone else on the bridge he was soaked. The rain was cool and refreshing and oilskins insufferably hot in the tropics, so no one wore them. To Dodds, the Captain was a strange sight: cap-less, his clinging white shirt and shorts browned by the tan they covered, his hair plastered against his skull, his face quaintly serious as he concentrated on the PPI, gobules of rain dripping from the end of his nose.
Unhappy at the forced change of plan at such short notice, Barratt’s emotions were confused. He was as upset by his failure to foresee what a tropical rainstorm might have done, as he was anxious about the consequences of shifting Restless's position. It was an advantage that radar would cover the mouth of the creek, and from what Aba Said had reported it was unlikely that the transmissions would be picked up by the submarine — the trees ‘planted’ over the search receiver, plus the high land round the creek, should mask them. Restless's asdic transmissions would be outside the range of the enemy’s hydrophones. So the Japanese shouldn’t know she was there. If, however, they had a lookout on the headland, she’d be sighted once the storm passed; in that case the submarine would remain in the creek. Suspecting that their hide-out had been discovered, the Japanese would be doubly alert. Restless would have lost the advantage of surprise.
These were the things which worried him. However, by the time Restless was in position several miles to the west of the headland, optimism had overcome misgiving and he began to feel that the rainstorm was not, perhaps, the disaster he’d imagined. As it was he now had two workable options: if the submarine came out he’d sink it by gunfire before it could dive. That would save a lot of toil and sweat. If it wasn’t ready or willing to leave, he would carry out his original plan during the coming night. Though it was the more difficult option it was the one he favoured and to which, for largely emotional reasons, he felt committed.
The important thing now was to get on with the briefing notes. Once the rain stopped and visibility was back to normal he’d go to his cabin and finish them.
Twenty-five
Making good ninety knots, the Catalina on the southbound leg of the afternoon patrol had passed well to seaward of the islands of Temba, Zanzibar and Mafia during the three hours since take-off at Kilindini. If speed was maintained it would be turning in towards the coast near Cape Delgado at about 1550. Its pilot, Flight Lieutenant Donald Tuke, knew that not long afterwards it would cover the area between Tambuzi and Medjumbi where Restless had been seen that morning.
A quiet, straightforward, and well-liked man, Tuke was not altogether happy about what he’d been asked to do, more particularly since Hutchison had insisted that secrecy was paramount. ‘That’s why a lamp signal’s no good,’ the Flight Lieutenant had said. ‘It could be read by others on board, and that’s the last thing Barratt would want. He’d be most upset if it was talked about. It contains information confidential to him personally.’
Hutchison had handed over the sealed envelope shortly before take-off and, since Hutch represented the RAF in the operations room at Navy House and enjoyed the confidence of the RN, Tuke had had neither the time nor the inclination to question the wisdom of what he’d been asked to do. It was only when thinking it over during the long boring hours flying down the coast that questions occurred to him which he realized he should have put to Hutchison. What, for example, was the message about? Why hadn’t he told him that? Who was it from? The RN? Confidential to him personally. What did that mean? Something concerning Barratt’s personal affairs? Possibly to do with the death of his wife? It was known in the Squadron that Barratt had requested patrolling Catalinas to keep clear of his ship while he searched for the Japanese submarine — one, incidentally, which everybody else believed had long since left the area. And yet, despite Barratt’s known aversion to RAF visitations, here was G-for-George about to make one at Hutchison’s request. Tuke wished he’d asked Hutchison that. Secrecy was paramount: that sounded more like something operational than personal. So what was it all about?
He gave up. He would do what he’d been asked to do, what he’d undertaken to do. But he’d have felt a lot better if he’d known the answers to those questions.
At 1550, shortly before passing over Tambuzi, G-for-George flew into a heavy rainstorm, obliging Tuke to fly on instruments. With visibility down to zero he decided to abandon the attempt to find Restless on that leg. He would, instead, fly on to Porto do Ibo, the southern limit of his patrol, before reversing course and looking for the destroyer on the northbound leg. That would involve another hour’s flying during which time the rainstorm should have moved on to the south-west. Having made this decision he asked the navigator for an ETA at a position midway between Med-jumbi and Tambuzi islands. The navigator worked on the chart, jotted the answer on the pad and passed it back — ETA 1710.
An officer in Restless who welcomed the Captain’s decision to establish a new patrol line was Sandy Hamilton. The First Lieutenant was told of it by the wardroom steward who called him at five with tea and the latest news. Having had four hours’ sleep and a shower, Hamilton did a quick change. While doing so he thought about the Captain’s decision. It was one which took a major worry from his mind, for it implied that Barratt had abandoned whatever wild-cat scheme he’d harboured. Not that Hamilton really knew what it was — the Captain kept his cards close to his chest — but the tests carried out earlier in the day by the torpedo party had provided some sort of clue and it was one which appalled the First Lieutenant. If Barratt had in mind what it suggested, it confirmed Hamilton’s belief that the Captain had lost all sense of proportion in his determination to destroy the submarine.