On Morrow’s shouted order, ‘Bonfire,’ the men in the attacking force who’d come ashore with bulging rucksacks over their shoulders, ducked out from behind the cover of the trees and hurled petrol bombs on to the undergrowth on the submarine’s casing. Made from the wardroom’s ample supply of empty gin bottles, they were closely followed by hand-grenades. Stacked with layers of sun-dried tinder, the submarine’s upperworks were soon a roaring inferno. The Japanese crew began pouring out of the conning-tower, only to be shot down as they struggled through the fire. Unaware that the gangways had been destroyed by hand-grenades a few made for them, but most jumped into the sea on the far side, many with their scant clothing alight. A hand-grenade lobbed into the conning-tower closed that avenue of escape, forcing the Japanese to make for the fore and aft hatches where intense heat quickly drove them back.
As the sound of heavy gunfire drifted down from the mouth of the creek, Morrow muttered a hoarse, ‘Thank Christ for that.’ Restless was shelling the headlands, creating the planned diversion.
In the excitement of the action he’d lost count of time, but checking his wristwatch he found that only a few minutes had elapsed since the bursting of the first rocket. Blinded to any view of the creek by the fire on I-357’s casing, he was wondering why the depth-charge had not yet exploded. Had the swimmers, exposed by the brilliance of the parachute flares, been killed in the water? He shook away the thought, concentrated again on the action which had become desultory; no more now than occasional rifle shots fired by his men at anything on the submarine which appeared to move.
He was about to give the order to cease fire when a huge explosion under the submarine’s stern threw a column of water high into the air. A wall of compression hit the men on the bank with such force that those nearest to it were knocked off their feet, the cascading water dousing the fire on the after casing. The silence of surprise which followed the explosion gave way suddenly to a hoarse cheer from the men on the bank.
Satisfied that none of them had been injured, Morrow ordered the cease-fire. Leaving the Sten gunners and two men with rifles to keep the submarine covered, he set off with the rest of the party for the break in the mangroves where the rig had been launched, and to which the swimmers would return. The lagoon tests had shown that they could reach the bank and be out of the water within one and a half minutes of placing the depth-charge under the submarine’s stern, whereas the flooding of the buoyancy tank would take two minutes once the air vent had been opened.
Thirty-one
Restless was in station off the mouth of the creek when a rocket burst over Maji Island and released a parachute flare. Since the shore party had none the First Lieutenant knew it must have been fired by the Japanese. Coming not long after sheet lightning had lit up the creek, he assumed they were either checking on Restless's movements or, more likely, on something suspicious in the creek.
At the briefing it had been agreed that the destroyer should be ready to create a diversion from 0330 onwards by shelling the headlands.
The whistle for the kick-off,’ Barratt had said, ‘will be the explosion of our depth-charge. If you hear general action ashore before then, get stuck in right away. Concentrate your fire on the mouth of the creek. It’s got to look like covering fire for a landing party. The idea is to take the Japs’ eye off the ball.’
Hamilton checked the time with Peter Dodds — it was 0342, but still no depth-charge explosion. Restless's crew had been at action stations since 0320. With his binoculars trained on the flare-lit creek, he said, ‘Tell Guns to keep his finger on the trigger. I think the balloon’s about to go up.’
Dodds was passing the message to the Gunnery Officer in the control-tower when the sound of firing came from the creek. The first flare petered out and a second rocket burst high above. Its flare had begun to descend when heavy rifle and machine-gun fire, grenade explosions and other sounds of action erupted suddenly beyond the bluff which shut off the view from seaward.
The First Lieutenant at once gave the order to open fire. Restless's formidable barrage started up, the crack and flash of her guns, the acrid smell of cordite, the ship shaking from concussion, all combining in violent harmony. The response from the creek was quick, two Very lights arc-ing into the sky above the western headland. Seconds passed; Restless's radar operator reported a small contact moving fast down the creek, its range opening. The cold white beam of the destroyer’s searchlight settled on a catamaran making towards the bluff, a white squirt of foam at its stern. Had he not feared it might be crewed by islanders, Hamilton would have ordered its sinking. Instead he phoned Lawson in the control-tower. ‘Hurry it along, Guns, but don’t sink it,’ he said.
Restless's pom-poms barked into action, fountains of silvered water leaping and sparkling astern of the scurrying catamaran which began a wild zig-zag. Down in the creek the night sky glowed in hues of orange and yellow, flame and smoke rising above the bluff from the hidden inferno.
Before long the tempo of action ashore slowed to no more than occasional bursts of machine-gun and rifle fire. The First Lieutenant was saying, ‘I wonder what the devil has happened to that depth-charge?’ when his question was answered by the muffled boom of an underwater explosion. The top of a great column of water leapt into the air above the bluff, its texture reflecting the light of the fire beneath it.
‘Thank the Lord for that,’ said the First Lieutenant. ‘I was afraid something had gone badly wrong.’
‘You’ve got to hand it to the Old Man.’ The Navigating Officer’s voice was nervous and edgy with emotion.
‘Bloody marvellous.’ The First Lieutenant lowered the binoculars. ‘I thought his plan was crazy. But by God it seems to have worked.’ He went to the compass platform, gave the order to cease-fire. The destroyer’s guns fell silent, and he conned the ship round in a wide circle to regain position off the headlands.
When Barratt raised his head above water for the second time he saw in the light from the fire that they’d got the rig within ten feet of the submarine’s stern. Mindful of rifle fire he took a quick gulp of air before ducking under. Totally obsessed with getting the rig into position, he was only dimly aware of Corrigan going up to breathe. Seconds later the American had ducked under and was alongside him again, the rig’s forward progress responding to the powerful shove of the younger man. Looking through the few inches of water above them, Barratt saw the orange glow in the sky and his mind registered that the fire had come too soon. He supposed the shots from the submarine had triggered the action. The fire was meant to happen after the depth-charge had exploded, not before. The light it cast was a menace but nothing could be done about that, and they were close enough now. He tapped Corrigan’s shoulder twice. The American returned the taps in acknowledgement. With the rig now almost under the submarine’s stern they broke surface. Keeping low in the water Barratt reached up, felt for the air vent lever, attempted to depress it, but it wouldn’t move. To exert greater pressure he pulled himself higher out of the water, pushed down on the lever with both hands. There was still no movement.