First the wooden carrier was laid in the sand. Much like a rigid, six-by-three foot stretcher, the projecting ends of its longitudinal and cross members provided handgrips for the six men who would carry the 200 lb load. Lengths of rope looped between the timber shafts formed the bed on which the parts of the rig were laid; the unprimed depth-charge, behind it the buoyancy drum, and last the canvas gripes to be used when the rig was launched. While McGlashan and his men were busy, others in the attack party were checking weapons and equipment. Some had service rifles or revolvers, a few had Sten guns, most had hand-grenades attached to their belts, and others bulging rucksacks over their shoulders. Every man had a fighting knife in his belt.
At thirty-seven minutes past two o’clock — seven minutes behind Barratt’s operational schedule — the attack party began to leave the beach. The pathfinders, Peter Morrow and Aba Said, led, followed by McLean and Carmichael. Barratt and Corrigan came next, the rig and its bearers immediately behind them. The rear was brought up by the TGM and Bob Stanley, a sickbay attendant who carried first-aid equipment.
The rain had stopped some time before they landed on the beach but there was still no break in the clouds, and the attack party climbed up the hillside in darkness, remaining in close order so that contact was not lost. Aba Said moved with the stealthy assurance of a bloodhound following a well-scented trail, pausing at times to peer into the night, touching the undergrowth as if its feel might carry clues. Occasionally he would stop, thrust his head forward and cup his hands behind his ears.
The stony track up which he took them wound its way through thick undergrowth where insects buzzed in protest as the rig carriers pushed it aside to make room for their load. At times there was the sound of a man stumbling, at others the crack of tinder breaking underfoot; occasionally the flap and screech of a startled bird would create alarm, but for the most part the only sounds were the scuff of feet, the wheeze of heavy breathing, and in the background the constant murmur of the sea. The low cloud ceiling intensified the night’s heat, and the sour sweet smell of sweat hovered over the climbing men. At times when the going got steep McGlashan and Stanley would lend a hand with the rig, lightening the load for its carriers.
At the top of the hill they halted for a five minute rest, something Barratt had promised at the briefing. ‘Don’t forget,’ he’d said, ‘you may be short of puff when you reach the top, but a five minute rest will put that right. The descent should be a piece of cake.’
While they rested he moved among the men encouraging, advising, checking on their problems and patting backs for work well done. ‘But the worst is over. The load will seem a lot lighter going down. And don’t forget,’ he laughed, ‘it’s strictly one way freight.’ To all he again stressed the importance of silence. ‘The nearer the target the greater the need,’ was his whispered reminder. As he’d expected, the attack party’s morale was high, their humour good and in spite of the unwelcome attention of swarms of mosquitoes, and undergrowth scratches on bare limbs, there were no complaints.
In a whispered conversation Morrow asked Aba Said how he had been able to follow the track so surely in the darkness.
‘Bwana, for many years of my life I have used the path,’ said the African. ‘In the rocks by the beach where we landed there is good food in the sea shells. But since the Japanese arrived our people are not allowed to come to that beach.’
The luminous dial of Barratt’s wrist watch showed 0302 when the rest period ended and the attack party began the descent led by Aba Said and Morrow, the others following in the order in which they’d climbed. They had not gone far when away to the north the horizon was illuminated by a sheet of lightning. Off the mainland guarding the entrance to the creek the dark silhouette of a destroyer had shown up momentarily against the brilliantly lit skyline. To Barratt and others who’d seen it, the sight of their ship, the reminder that they were not alone, was comforting.
Stars began to glitter through a break in the clouds and he cursed quietly. The last thing he wanted was a clear sky, particularly as the moon, risen at midnight, was still behind cloud. For the attack party’s purposes the longer it remained there the better. The wind had backed north from north-east where the storm clouds had been gathering before darkness fell. He prayed that it would continue to mass them over the island.
The file of men threading their way down through the trees came to a halt. Aba Said went through his listening motions, head forward, peering into the darkness. ‘Listen, Bwana,’ he warned. ‘We are close to the water now. No more than fifty paces.’
Morrow listened, straining his faculties until he too could hear the faint murmur of water ahead. ‘Where is the submarine, Aba Said?’
The African took his arm, aimed it left. ‘That way, Bwana. About two hundred paces. The catamarans lie this side, behind the stern. Along the creek the mangroves are high. We must go towards the catamarans before it is possible to reach the water. There is a sentry at that place. He watches the catamarans.’
‘Stay here, Aba Said,’ Morrow replied. ‘I will tell the Bwana M’Kubwa of these things.’ He went back to where Barratt waited, gave him the news. The Captain hesitated before saying, ‘Go ahead with Aba Said and McLean. Get McLean to deal with the sentry. Let me know when he has.’ Barratt’s tone was matter of fact, as if he were giving an order on Restless's bridge.
Morrow disappeared into the night.
The three men went on in silence, keeping to the bank above the tangle of mangroves which lined the creek. At times they would stop to listen, only to hear the lapping of water, until they were closer to the catamarans when the subdued hum of machinery came from somewhere ahead. They moved warily, testing the ground underfoot with tentative steps before applying the weight of their bodies. They’d not gone far when the sound of a man coughing stopped them. Aba Said crept forward, leading the way down the bank through a break in the mangroves. For the first time they saw the water, its ruffled surface reflecting a slit of stars. Following the African’s example they knelt behind the undergrowth which fringed the upper side of the bank. From their left came the sound of approaching footsteps. The scuff of feet came nearer, passed on, and they saw the dark shape of a man against the starlit water. He halted a short distance away. McLean whispered, ‘You and Aba stay here.’
Crouching on all fours, McLean followed the line of the undergrowth. A short distance on he stopped, took the fighting knife from its sheath and a.303 cartridge from his ammunition belt.
The footsteps sounded again, this time coming back along the bank. Soon the bulk of a man showed against the water. He was walking slowly, a rifle slung over his shoulder. McLean, rigid as a stalking cat, threw the cartridge far out into the water. At the sound of its splash the sentry stopped, stared into the creek, his rifle at the ready. McLean inched forward, came up behind the motionless figure. He was close enough to hear the man’s breathing when he leapt and struck, twisting the serrated blade of the fighting knife, sinking it deep into the sentry’s neck, the rasping noise of steel against gristle and bone deadened by the gasping sigh.
Thirty
‘McLean killed him, sir. We pushed the body into the undergrowth.’ The tremor in Morrow’s voice was not as much excitement as shock. He’d stalked and killed wild animals on the Kenyan farm where he’d grown up, but never had he witnessed the stalking and killing of a human being. Black as the night was, the attack on the Japanese, a monochrome set against dark, star-splashed water, had been only too visible to Morrow’s keen eyes.