The enormity of what he’d done began to penetrate his consciousness. He had abandoned I-357, deserted his command while under enemy attack. His men, some of them certainly, must have witnessed the act of desertion, the dive over the side. That was not the act of a samurai. He should have stayed with his command. That he would quickly have burned to death was, he now realized, no excuse. That would be expected of a commanding officer in the Imperial Japanese
Navy. Death in action was sublime, the most noble end. Survival could be a disgrace. Yashimoto emptied his lungs with a tremulous sigh. There was only one way to purge dishonour: bushido, the code of the warrior, required that he should commit seppuku, the ritual act of disembowelment. He would have done that, of course, had he still been on board the submarine. There, before the Shinto shrine, he would have put on the white kimono, apologized to the Emperor, to his ancestors, to his natural gods, for his failure to defend his command and, thereby, his failure to attack the British carrier. After such expressions of regret and humility, he would have bared his stomach, plunged into it the ceremonial dagger and, with a violent sideways slash, completed the disembowelment. Now that that was no longer possible, he must reach the sentry post beyond the bluff, organize a counter-attack. The enemy on the bank would undoubtedly be in superior force. He would be killed in action. That would be good, but it would not purge dishonour in quite the same way that seppuku would have done.
These troublesome thoughts were interrupted by a vast explosion. A wall of pressure hit him, knocked him off the knees on which he crouched. Lying on his side he saw the column of water high in the air a hundred yards or so down the bank from where he lay. That the fire had detonated one of I-357’s torpedo warheads was his first thought; or perhaps an ammunition magazine. Only something like that could have caused such an explosion.
The light from the fire had grown less brilliant, was diminishing, though he could still hear noises from it, crackles and explosive sizzles. He got to his feet, crouching low, and went towards the trees. The distant sound of pistol shots came to him. They were followed by two green Very lights which rose into the air over the creek. High above him another rocket burst and in the light of its flare he saw the line of trees. They were higher up the bank, farther away than he had thought. Feeling naked and exposed, he began to run. A burst of machine-gun fire came from the far side of the
creek. He knew it must be the sentry post by the huts. There was the high whine of approaching bullets and a dull thudding as they struck the ground around him. The idiots were firing at him. He redoubled his efforts, ran with furious energy. A dozen more paces and he would be in the undergrowth fringing the trees. He had almost made it when he felt an immense blow at the base of his spine. Its force lifted him from fast-moving feet and hurled him forward, arms outstretched to break his fall.
It was in this fashion that the dead body of Commander Togo Yashimoto reached the undergrowth in a last spectacular dive.
Thirty-three
A few minutes after they’d begun the climb up the hill the moon came clear of the clouds to help Aba Said lead the ragged file of men back along the track used on the outward journey. Without the burden of the rig, and the weight of petrol bombs, hand-grenades and ammunition expended, they found the going comparatively easy. But for yet another rocket flare and odd bursts of machine-gun fire from the sentries near the huts — fired in quite the wrong direction as it happened — there had been little Japanese reaction to the Very lights. Morrow and the Sten gunners, last to leave the bank, had stayed on to fight a rearguard action. But it had not been necessary and they’d soon caught up with the others.
The withdrawal was without further incident and within twenty minutes of leaving the creek they had arrived on the beach. The motorboat, lying a short distance offshore, came in with the skimmer in tow and by 0425 those on the beach had re-embarked and course was set for the pick-up point where Restless could be seen waiting in the moonlight. Before long the landing party, weary but excited, their dusky faces streaked with sweat, were back on board.
With the motorboat and skimmer hoisted inboard, Restless headed out to sea. The First Lieutenant handed over the watch to the Gunnery Officer and went to the chartroom where Morrow told him of the happenings ashore.
Listening in silence to the younger man’s vivid, eager description of the action, Hamilton was visibly shocked when told how McLean had seen the dead bodies of Barratt and Corrigan.
‘Bloody awful,’ he said, the muscles in his face working, his voice strained. ‘But I’m not surprised. They were taking incredible risks. When I heard that depth-charge explode well after the action had begun I was worried. Some sort of premonition, I suppose.’
In a voice that had lost its firmness, was on the edge of breaking, Morrow said, ‘They were fantastically brave.’ The whites of his eyes, the red of his lips, were exaggerated by the black, perspiring face.
The First Lieutenant saw the signs of reaction and quickly interrupted. ‘You people put up a marvellous show. Well done. Now go and get some rest and remove that filthy blacking. You can fill me in on the details later.’
Morrow said, ‘Are you going to tell Kilindini what’s happened?’
‘Yes. Of course. Right away.’
‘Good.’ Looking as if he were about to say something, the Sub-Lieutenant shook his head and left the chartroom.
The telephone on the cypher desk rang. Camilla picked it up. ‘Who?’ she said. Then, ‘Oh, Fleet Wireless Officer. Sorry, sir. I didn’t recognize your voice. The line’s a bit woolly. Signal from who, did you say?’ She frowned, listened intently. ‘From Restless. Oh, splendid.’ She looked across the operations room and smiled at Hutch Hutchison before beginning to write. ‘Oh, how absolutely marvellous,’ she said, adding, ‘Sorry, sir, I won’t interrupt again.’ But she did, quite soon, with a quiet, ‘Oh no, how awful.’ When she’d finished writing she said, ‘I’ll read that back-to Deputy C-in-C, Eastern Fleet, repeat Captain (D), begins: Japanese submarine I-357 attacked and destroyed in Maji Island creek twelve miles south-south-east of Cape Ulu. Lieutenant Commander Barratt and Leading Seaman Corrigan USNR killed in action. Enemy casualties heavy. Surviving Japanese still on island. Lieutenant Hamilton, temporarily in command of Restless, requests instructions. Message ends. Time of origin 0458.’ She paused, said a soft, ‘Thank you, sir.’ Putting the phone back on its rest, she looked at Hutchison with sad, clouded eyes. ‘Isn’t that dreadful. John Barratt and the American, Corrigan, have been killed.’
‘Yes. Bad show. But they got the submarine. That’s terrific. Can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs, you know.’
Camilla turned away. ‘That’s a hateful simile,’ she said. ‘Cynical and unhelpful.’
The Flight Lieutenant looked solemn, shrugged. ‘I dare say. But that’s the price of war. Anyway, Sandy Hamilton’s okay. That’s something, isn’t it?’
Her head was in her hands and he saw her shoulders shaking. He went over to the desk, touched her gently. ‘Sorry. I’m not very strong on tact.’
A man came on to Restless's bridge, went to the tall dark shape standing by the screen. ‘Will you be using the Captain’s day-cabin, sir?’
‘Who is that?’ asked the First Lieutenant.
‘Captain’s steward, sir.’
‘Sorry, Betts. Your voice sounded different. No, I won’t be using it.’