‘Put a couple of rounds into the bridgehouse,’ said Yashimoto. He bent to the voice-pipe. ‘The enemy is on fire amidships and sinking,’ he told the First Lieutenant. ‘We will move off now. The flames may attract attention. Revolutions for sixteen knots.’
The First Lieutenant repeated the order. Yashimoto was giving a helm order to the Coxswain when the distant crack of a gun was followed by the rising whine of an incoming shell. A blinding flash of light beneath the conning-tower was accompanied by an explosion which rocked the bridge. Toshida, the Yeoman and a lookout were thrown off their feet. Yashimoto’s cry of, ‘My God! What was that?’ was overtaken by muffled screams from the control-room.
In the faint reflection of light from the Liberty ship’s fire one of I-357’s bridge lookouts, a young ordinary seaman, could be seen pointing to the stern of the enemy. ‘They fired at us, sir,’ he complained, in much the same tone as a child might have said, ‘They threw a stone at me, miss.’
Three
‘Perhaps you two could lower your voices.’ The thin man with the long face looked up from the book he was reading, frowned at the offenders.
‘Sorry. We were having a discussion.’ Galpin, the senior of Restless's two midshipmen, rubbed the side of his nose in a gesture of apology.
‘What you were having was a typical wardroom argument, not a discussion.’ The thin man tipped his heavily rimmed spectacles straight, glared at the midshipmen and began reading again.
‘How would you define a typical wardroom argument, sir?’ challenged the midshipman with red hair. The emphasis on sir was well calculated to irritate Surgeon Lieutenant Philip Kerr RNVR, generally known in HMS Restless as ‘Docker’, a corruption of his name and calling preferred by the wardroom to the more usual ‘Doc’.
‘Wild assertion followed by flat contradiction ending in personal abuse,’ came from a large man with a deep voice. Spreadeagled in an armchair, he had appeared to be asleep. ‘It’s not original but it will do.’ He looked at the wardroom clock. ‘Getting on for 2100. Shouldn’t you two be turning in instead of making a nuisance of yourselves? You’ve got watches to keep.’
The Doctor nodded. ‘Thank you, Number One. Most helpful.’
‘It’s a pleasure, Docker. Any time.’ The large man pulled himself up in the armchair. ‘Midshipmen belong in gunrooms. Destroyers don’t have gunrooms. So these young peasants have to come in here with their betters. Appalling really.’
Jeremy Tripp, the freckled, red-haired midshipman frowned. ‘Didn’t you do destroyer time when you were a mid, sir?’
‘Of course. But in those days midshipmen were rather different. Well disciplined, good mannered, quiet — and clean. We never argued.’ Sandy Hamilton, the First Lieutenant, looking older than his twenty-six years, put up a hand and yawned. ‘We were rather a splendid lot really.’
The clean struck home. Tropical kit, white shirt, shorts and stockings, was the rig of the day. Those worn by the midshipmen seemed rather more crumpled and grubby than the wardroom’s average. Tripp was thinking up an appropriate reply when there was a knock on the wardroom door. A Chief Petty Officer Telegraphist came in, clipboard in hand. He went to the First Lieutenant, passed him the board. ‘From SOO, Kilindini, sir.’
The First Lieutenant shook his head as he read the message. ‘My God, how absolutely typical. Flaming RAF. Well I suppose we can’t win ’em all.’ He initialled the message, passed the clipboard back to the Chief Petty Officer. ‘Thank you, Duckworth.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Captain not pleased, I imagine.’
Duckworth turned, hand on the wardroom door, nodded. ‘He didn’t look too happy, sir.’ Smiling, he closed the door behind him.
Hamilton ran a hand through a head of tousled hair, stood up, yawned again and stretched. ‘I’d better go to the bridge,’ he said to no one in particular. ‘See how the Old Man’s taking it.’
‘What is it then that the flying boys have been doing, Number One?’ The inquiry in a Welsh sing-song came from the Engineer Officer, Gareth Edwards, a slight, dark-eyed man, who was playing darts with Peter Morrow, an RNVR Sub-Lieutenant. Morrow, whose family farmed at Nakuru, beyond Lake Naivasha, had joined in Kilindini a few days before the ship left for Simonstown.
‘That Catalina we’ve been looking for got back to Kilindini at 1500. She wasn’t down at all. Her transmitter had gone
on the blink. Some chairborne aviator forgot to inform Navy House.’
‘Indeed, and it’s a lot of fuel then that we’ve been wasting.’
‘And time, Chiefy. About eight hours while we searched thousands of square miles of ruddy ocean.’ The First Lieutenant picked up his cap and made for the bridge.
HMS Restless of the 27th Destroyer Flotilla, Eastern Fleet, on passage to her base at Kilindini after a refit and boiler clean in Simonstown, had been diverted earlier in the day to search for an RAF Catalina reported down in the area south of the Comores, the islands in the Mozambique Channel which lay midway between the East African coast and Madagascar. The flying boat’s last known position had been one hundred and fifty miles SSW of Moheli Island. Starting from that position Restless had carried out a square search, from time to time expanding the area. But it had been a fruitless operation. On receipt of the W/T message announcing the safe return of the Catalina, Lieutenant Commander John Barratt, Captain of Restless, had put the destroyer back on course for Kilindini, some 400 miles to the north-west.
It was the second time since leaving Simonstown that the destroyer had been diverted. Several days earlier she had gone to the assistance of a south-bound convoy under attack by submarines between Durban and Lourengo Marques. With the corvettes escorting the convoy, Restless had carried out several depth-charge attacks on what seemed promising asdic contacts; but the depth of water was so great that it had been difficult to confirm a ‘kill’.
The First Lieutenant found the Captain in the chartroom with the Navigating Officer, Charlie Dodds, a Lieutenant RN whose persistent frown was not surprising in a young man who seldom stopped worrying.
Not sure of the Captain’s mood, the First Lieutenant began tentatively. ‘Too bad about the Catalina, sir?’
The lean, wiry figure of the Captain turned away from the chart-table. ‘Yes, it is.’ He stared past the First Lieutenant in an impersonal way. ‘I’ve given SOO our ETA as 2130 tomorrow. If it’s wrong, blame the Pilot. He did the sums.’
‘Only thing I’m not sure about is the current.’ Furrows gathered on the Navigating Officer’s forehead. ‘For most of today it’s been setting south at two-and-a-half knots. The ETA’s based on that.’
‘I’m going back to the bridge.’ Barratt spoke without looking at anyone. ‘Need some fresh air before getting my head down. It’s a hot night.’
The First Lieutenant nodded. ‘Yes it is, sir.’ He hesitated. ‘Be rather fun getting back to Kilindini, won’t it?’ The picture in his mind was that of Camilla, the attractive second officer Wren who did cypher duty in Navy House.
Staring at the younger man in a strange, absent-minded way, Barratt shrugged his shoulders and left the chartroom.
The First Lieutenant’s voice was apologetic. ‘I thought my Kilindini ploy might work.’
‘Bit soon isn’t it?’
‘I suppose so. Wish we could cheer him up. Incredible change though, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, but understandable. He only got the news six weeks ago. Give him a chance, poor chap. He has to adjust to things.’