‘It’s jammed,’ he shouted to Corrigan who pushed him aside, seized the lever and bore down on it. Strong as he was, the American failed to depress it. Vital seconds slipped by. Machine-gun and rifle fire began to splash around them. Barratt had realized it was coming from the shore opposite and not from the submarine when something delivered a violent blow on his back. He felt as if he’d been hit between the shoulder blades with a heavy instrument. He put his hand to the place, felt the broken flesh. No pain but his left arm had gone limp and unresponsive to any attempt to move it. He shouted to Corrigan, ‘Get to hell out of it. I’ll give you ninety seconds before I pull the Senhouse slip — that’ll sink the bloody thing…’ Before he could finish the sentence he had rolled over on his side, face downwards in the water. In the light of the flames Corrigan saw the crimson gash on the Captain’s back. He reached out, pulled the limp body towards him, saw the closed eyes, blood oozing from the open mouth. He’s dead, he decided, no way I can help him. He let the Captain’s body go, ducking involuntarily as bullets whined and splashed around him.
The Senhouse slip, he thought. There’s no other way. Christ Jesus give me strength. He took a deep breath, rolled on to his back underwater, raised an arm, ran a hand along the top of the buoyancy chamber until he felt the air vent lever. The Senhouse slip was just forward of it. His fingers found it, tried to slide the steel ring which held the tongue. It wouldn’t budge. Have to get higher in the goddam water, he told himself. He pulled himself up, slipped the clip free. The gripes securing the depth-charge to the buoyancy chamber fell away and the chamber, freed of its load, rose in the water.
Corrigan made for the bank, his arms flailing the water in a desperate crawl. In the few seconds of life left to him he had managed to cover almost fifteen feet when he was blown out of the water by the violence of the explosion.
When Morrow and his men got back to the rig’s launching site they took cover in the undergrowth. The fire on the submarine, burning less fiercely now, still cast enough light to show that I-357’s stern was underwater while her bows had lifted.
Morrow touched McGlashan’s shoulder. ‘Look. She’s down by the stern, TGM.’
McGlashan, kneeling beside him, said, ‘Aye, the depth-charge must have blown the stern trimming tanks. Flooded the motor-room and stokers’ mess, too, I’d dare say.’ The TGM’s tone suggested satisfaction with a job well done. ‘The rudder and propellers must be in poor shape. They will have taken the full force of the blast.’
‘Bloody good show,’ said Morrow. ‘Terrific.’ His voice changed, betrayed anxiety. ‘The Captain and Brad Corrigan should have shown up by now. Three minutes gone since the explosion.’
The sound of Restless's guns had ceased and for the first time since the action began there was little to be heard other than odd rifle shots, and the occasional rattle of machine-gun fire coming from the direction of the Japanese sentry post on the beach by the huts. ‘God knows what they’re firing at,’ said Morrow.
‘Each other, I’d say.’ McGlashan’s response was unemotional.
A rocket sizzled into the sky from the far side of the creek, burst at the top of its climb to release yet another flare. McGlashan swore softly. ‘Hope to Christ that doesn’t show up our swimmers.’
McLean said, ‘I’ll go back along the bank, Mr Morrow. Check if they’ve come ashore further back.’
‘Hold on for a moment, McLean. Let that flare die before you go.’
When it touched the water and spluttered out, the signalman left them.
McLean had not been long gone when yet another rocket soared into the sky; it burst and the parachute flare floated gently down. In the brilliance of its light Morrow and his men looked anxiously for some sign of the swimmers, but there was none. The flare settled in the water and the creek was again swallowed by a darkness relieved only by the subdued glow of ashes along I-357’s casing.
Morrow looked at his watch: six minutes gone and still no sign of them. Though he tried hard to believe that all was well, he had a feeling deep down that something had gone desperately wrong. At the briefing Barratt had stressed that no more than four minutes at most should be allowed for the return of the swimmers. ‘If we haven’t got back by then the rest of the party must get to hell out of it,’ he’d said. ‘The Japanese mustn’t be given time to mount a counter-attack. At the four minute mark get out double-quick and make for the pick-up point. That order is not to be disobeyed.’ He had stopped then to glare at Morrow. ‘The safe return of the attack force is a lot more important than attempts to rescue individual members who may have got into trouble. Is that understood?’
A general murmur of assent indicated that it was, and Barratt had gone on to the next item.
Four minutes — Morrow reminded himself — but six had already passed. Torn by anxiety, faced with an awful decision, he was wondering for how much longer he could ignore the Captain’s orders when McLean appeared out of the darkness. They’re dead, sir,’ was the signalman’s laconic report.
Morrow said, ‘Oh, God. Are you sure?’
‘Yes. Certain. I saw their bodies in the light of that last flare. Floating face downwards they were. Not far from each other. There were a lot of other bodies around. Jap bodies. The Captain had a bad wound. A big gash down the back. His body and Corrigan’s looked all broken up. Kind of out of shape.’
Morrow said, ‘Sure they weren’t Japs, McLean? I mean — how could you be certain on a dark night? Our people’s faces and bodies blackened — and all that?’
‘Quite sure,’ said McLean quietly. ‘The yellow armbands showed up in the light of the flare. Apart from anything else their hair was too long for them to be Japs.’
‘Christ!’ Morrow’s voice trembled. ‘How bloody awful.’ In the darkness McGlashan put his hand on the SubLieutenant’s shoulder. ‘It’s war, Mr Morrow,’ he said. ‘One Japanese submarine and God knows how many Japs…’ He hesitated. ‘…for the price of two of ours.’
In a businesslike voice McLean said, ‘Shall I fire the recall?’ Morrow said, ‘No point in hanging about, I suppose. Yes, do that.’
The signalman took a Very pistol from his belt, aimed it into the sky and fired twice. Two Very lights chased each other like green stars over the waters of the creek.
Thirty-two
For Yashimoto it had been a long day. Since Hosokawa’s report of a British destroyer off the island, the Captain of I-357 had been busy ensuring that the defence measures he’d ordered had been properly implemented.
By midnight, physically and mentally tired but satisfied that every reasonable precaution had been taken, he went to his cabin to rest. The second degree of readiness had been instituted, skeleton crews for torpedoes and guns were at their stations, officers and lookouts were on watch in the conning-tower, and hydrophone and search-receiver operators were keeping a listening watch.
Secure in the knowledge that everything possible had been done, and much influenced by his belief that the British would not infringe Portuguese neutrality, he soon fell asleep. In his Night Order Book he had stressed that he was to be called immediately anything unusual occurred or was suspected, and particularly if the enemy destroyer made a close approach. The officer-of-the-watch was, in any event, to report to him at the end of each hour.
His last thought before falling asleep had, however, been concerned with something quite unrelated to these matters. On the contrary, it had to do with something both stimulating and agreeable, for he relived in fantasy the last bath he had taken with Masna in her fine house in Penang. The ornamental pool, its cool scented waters strewn with frangipani petals, had been an exquisite setting for that beautiful face and sensuous body; it was while contemplating these that the fantasy faded and sleep took over.