‘G-for-George landed at Port Reitz a few minutes ago, sir. Its captain, Don Tuke, reports that he sighted Restless at 1725 midway between Tambuzi Island and Cape Ulu, more or less where she’s been for the last couple of days. There was thick cloud and heavy rain in the area during the afternoon, but Tuke says he had a good low-fly look at the coast and islands in the vicinity. Apart from a couple of Portuguese coasters, some dhows and the usual rash of catamarans, he saw nothing worth reporting.’
‘Did Restless attempt to communicate with him?’ The SOO held his head back, his eyes focused along his nose as if it were a rifle barrel.
‘I imagine Don Tuke would have told me had she done so, sir.’ Hutchison spoke in a low voice. He looked across to the far end of the room to check whether Camilla had heard him. She was keying a cypher machine.
‘I simply cannot make out what Barratt’s up to.’ Captain Pelly, the Chief Staff Officer, looked at the punkah as if the answer might come from somewhere within its languid flaps. ‘Looks as if you’ll be joining S-for-Sugar for tomorrow’s ride, George.’
Captain (D)’s blue eyes twinkled with pleasure. ‘Yes, indeed. Take-off at 0400. Spoil my beauty sleep, but it should be worth it. Bound to be cooler in the Catalina.’ He chuckled. ‘Cooler in the Catalina. Rather good. Title for a hit tune.’
‘Let’s hope the weather holds,’ said the CSO. ‘Don’t like the sound of those rainstorms.’
A squeak of surprise from the cypher desk and the scrape of a chair was followed by Camilla sweeping across the room clipboard in hand. ‘Signal from Restless,’ was her triumphant announcement as she passed it to the SOO.
He took it, frowning as he read. ‘H’m,’ he said. ‘That’s better, but still a bit odd.’
‘Come on SOO.’ Captain (D) waved an imperious arm. ‘Let’s have it. Can’t keep all the juicy bits to yourself.’
The SOO surveyed the faces round the operations table with an I-know-it-but-you-don’t look. ‘Usual address and other prefixes,’ he said. ‘Message begins. Intend to attack Japanese submarine I-357 before dawn tomorrow. Message ends. Time of origin 2231.’ He handed the clipboard back to the cypher officer.
Captain (D) glanced at the wall-clock. ‘That was fifteen minutes ago. Does sound a bit odd, CSO. What d’you make of it? And how on earth does he know the Jap’s pennant numbers?’
‘It rather confirms what I thought,’ said the Chief Staff Officer. ‘Barratt knows where that submarine is. Can’t get at it — neutral territory, that sort of thing — so he’s been playing cat and mouse outside, waiting for it to put to sea. His tactics have evidently paid off. He must know she’s coming out sometime before daylight tomorrow. Could be information picked up from African fishermen. They probably gave him the pennant numbers. You’ll recall that Restless's motorboat was seen towing a catamaran. Only thing that puzzles me is why Barratt has now decided to break wireless silence.’
Captain (D) blew out his cheeks before rapidly deflating them. ‘I dare say he made a high speed dash — twenty or thirty miles out to sea before transmitting. That wouldn’t alert the Jap if he’s holed up close inshore. Plenty of traffic in the Mozambique Channel.’
‘Pity Barratt didn’t think of doing something like that days ago,’ suggested the SOO.
The Chief Staff Officer’s expression, the slightly raised eyebrows, conveyed mild disapproval. ‘I’ve no doubt he’ll explain it all when he gets back.’ His eyes settled for a moment on the SOO. ‘Our views may have been a little uncharitable. We could be sending him a signal of congratulation tomorrow.’
‘So — do I or don’t I go down there in the morning, CSO?’ Captain (D)’s usually cheerful face was shadowed by disappointment.
‘I think we might wait and see what happens before deciding on that, George.’
Camilla, standing beside the SOO, patted the clipboard. ‘The Fleet W/T office acknowledged Restless's signal,’ she said. ‘Are we to make any reply, sir?’
‘No,’ said the SOO, adding, ‘unless either of you gentlemen care to?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Captain (D). ‘Barratt’s found the submarine. He hasn’t asked for help. Why not leave things as they are. He seems to be doing a good job.’
Greatly daring, Camilla fixed her attentions on Captain Pelly. ‘Wouldn’t it be rather nice, sir, to send Restless a “Good luck and good hunting” signal?’
The Captain melted under the appealing eyes of the cypher officer. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It would be rather nice.’
Twenty-nine
Barratt went to the bridge after the watches had changed at midnight to find it wet and glistening from earlier rain. A clouded sky and distant lightning promised more. The weather continued to come from the north-east, the wind at times gusting to Force 6, building up a moderate sea, Rest-less's bows throwing up sheets of spray each time her patrol line took her into the wind.
‘Any sign of action ashore?’ Barratt asked the officer-of-the-watch.
‘None, sir. We’ve exposed a light several times. On each occasion for about ten seconds when the ship was opposite the entrance to the creek.’ He lowered the night-glasses he was using. ‘Once we blew off steam. With this wind I’m sure they heard us. But there’s been no reaction.’
Barratt said, ‘Good. That’s what we want.’ He went across to the starboard side of the bridge, stood with his hands on the coaming staring into the darkness, thinking of the coming hours. The attempt he’d made at rest had been hopeless. Far too tense for that, his mind too occupied, he’d soon given up. He imagined that others in the shore party were having the same difficulty. Rest and the immediate prospect of action were not easy bedfellows. It was good to be back on the bridge where things were happening. He checked a mental list of things to be done. He’d have a final session with the Torpedo Officer, get that side of things sorted out. Then another chat with Morrow and Aba Said. There were several more questions he had to ask the African. That would take him through to around 0100 when he’d go to his cabin, blacken his face and body, and put on the few garments he’d be wearing: the bathing trunks under dungaree trousers, dark socks, ink-dyed canvas shoes and the webbing belt to hold the.38 revolver and the fighting knife. All that would have taken about forty minutes. Then he’d come back to the bridge, have a quick re-check of the drill for the night with the First Lieutenant — after that, standby for the landing.
For a moment his thoughts wandered in a confusion of emotions: foreboding, awareness of danger, of bloody action. But none were so powerful as the overriding determination for revenge.
When Restless had gone to the assistance of the southbound convoy he had attacked what was thought to be a German U-boat. But his emotions then and his emotions now were worlds apart; intense dislike for the Germans, coupled with respect for the skill and bravery of their U-boat commanders, bore no relation to what he felt about the Japanese. Nor did the methods of attack: the convoy battle had involved the usual asdic hunt, the dropping of depth-charges on a remote, unseen enemy represented by no more than a ping on the bridge speaker and a purple trace on the plotting-table.
The attack on I-357 would be the antithesis of that. He would see the Japanese submarine at close range, it would be a hand-to-hand affair, a visible killing and maiming, the ultimate in revenge.
Aware that his thoughts had wandered, that time was short, he went to the chartroom. There he found Dodds working on the tide-tables. After they’d discussed tides for the night, Barratt said, ‘I’d like you to relieve Taylor for about twenty minutes. Tell him I want him here.’