Diving Stations

by Edwyn Gray

  Getting to his feet, Mihoro glanced suspiciously at the three Chinese seamen standing meekly in the stern under the guns of the guards and spoke rapidly to Kino. The petty officer nodded and called Teishu down from the bows where he was checking another group of similar barrels. The seaman saluted as Kino gave him his instructions and, climbing on to the gunwale, he began semaphoring to the destroyer with his arms.

  Seitaka, Suma’s Yeoman of Signals, raised his telescope and read off the message. He passed it on verbally to Aritsu who was waiting impatiently at his side.

  ‘Sub-Lieutenant Mihoro requests you go aboard the junk, sir. He says he has found a large number of oil barrels- diesel oil.’

  The impatience vanished from Aritsu’s face. He was suddenly alert. Diesel oil - fuel for warships. Enemy warships. What a stroke of luck. He could not only destroy the enemy’s supplies but, if he was able to establish the rendezvous position for the refuelling operation, he could also lay an ambush and sink the warship for which it was intended. The normally taciturn commander was actually smiling as he ordered the bosun to lower away Suma’s motorboat.

  Aritsu sniffed the air suspiciously as he climbed over the side of the junk to join Mihoro and the boarding party. Ignoring the three prisoners, he slowly walked down the length of the deck and examined the serried rows of barrels. The last doubts vanished from his mind by the time he had completed his inspection. Much as he would have liked to seize the junk as a prize and bring the captured oil back to Whampoa in triumph, it would interfere with his other plans, and after a short pause, he ordered Kino to unseal the barrels and tip the fuel into the sea. Better to destroy the stuff and leave himself a free agent, he decided. He turned to the Korean sub-lieutenant.

  ‘Bring the prisoners to me.’

  Prodded forward by the bayonets of the guards, the Chinese sailors shuffled their way down from the poop to the well deck amidships where Aritsu was waiting.

  ‘Which of you is the Captain?’ he asked in fluent Cantonese.

  Chen Yu moved forward half a pace and bowed. Aritsu stared at him in silence for a few moments - his deep-set eyes boring into the Chinaman’s brain, as if laying bare the innermost secrets of his soul.

  ‘Where are you taking the oil?’ he snapped.

  ‘Palambang, sir.’

  ‘Liar.’

  Chen Yu bowed in acknowledgement but made no reply. He stared down at the deck and remained silent.

  ‘You are in the pay of the British.’ Aritsu made the question sound like a statement of fact. ‘You are being paid to refuel British warships.’

  ‘No, sir. Not being paid, sir.’ Chen Yu answered truthfully.

  Mihoro had disappeared through the hatch into the tiny cabin under the poopdeck and, as Aritsu pursued his interrogation, he suddenly emerged carrying a number of navigation instruments - instruments of a sophistication and type not normally found in a primitive Chinese sailing vessel... Aritsu paused in mid-question, took one of the instruments from the sub-lieutenant, and examined it carefully. He smiled to himself as he saw the official British Admiralty mark stamped into the brass casing.

  ‘Lies are of no avail,’ he told Chen Yu ominously as he held the sextant up in front of his face. ‘Give me the information I want and no harm will come to you. Where is your rendezvous position with the English warship?’

  Chen Yu made no reply and the commander snapped a swift order in Japanese to the guards. Picking the Chinese skipper up by the arms, they threw him down across the opened hatchway leading to the hold and held him firmly, so that the lower part of his left leg was placed at an angle across the empty space- the limb being supported at thigh and ankle by the rigid coaming surrounding the hatchway.

  ‘A crippled Captain is of no use to a healthy crew,’ Aritsu said quietly. ‘Tell us the rendezvous co-ordinates.’ Chen Yu stared up at him with wide, terror-filled eyes.

  Aritsu nodded and one of the sailors slammed the butt of his heavy service rifle down on the Chinaman’s shin. There was a dry cracking sound of splintered bone and Chen Yu’s leg snapped like a piece of rotted wood. Blood oozed through the cotton material of his trousers where the broken bone protruded through the flesh. He remained silent for a moment and then shrieked like a wounded animal as the pain reached his brain.

  ‘The other leg, Suka,’ Aritsu ordered unemotionally. He waited for the sailors to rearrange the Chinaman over the hatchway, so that his right leg stretched out in readiness for the same treatment. The agony of the movement brought more screams, but the commander’s expression remained completely impassive. Bending forward, he stared down into Chen Yu’s perspiring face. ‘Tell me the position or you will never walk again.’

  Chen Yu compressed his lips defiantly and the rifle butt descended for a second time. The Chinaman’s body lifted in a rigid arch and his mouth opened in a soundless scream. An eternity of pain passed in a fraction of a second before he fainted. Aritsu straightened up. He took no pleasure from the torture. It was a barbaric necessity. He turned away slowly.

  Wan Fu saw the movements and knew it was his turn next. Pushing the guards aside he leapt for the poop rail, swayed uncertainly for a moment, and threw himself into the sea. Sub-Lieutenant Mihoro reached the side almost before the Chinese seaman hit the water and, dragging a revolver from the holster at his hip, he took careful aim and continued firing until the chamber was empty. By the time Aritsu arrived at the rails, Wan Fu’s lifeless body was floating face-downwards in the blood-stained sea.

  ‘A pity,’ he commented blandly. ‘He would have been useful. You must learn the art of self-discipline, SubLieutenant. You Koreans can only think of killing.’ Mihoro flushed angrily. The torture of Chen Yu had stirred a primitive evil in his subconscious - a latent sadism inherited from his Mongol ancestors which had remained dormant for many generations. He considered Commander Aritsu, like most professional Japanese naval officers, was too soft.

  ‘We still have one more prisoner, sir,’ he reminded the senior officer. ‘Why not leave that one to me?’

  Aritsu felt sickened by the brutality he had already ordered, but he did not allow his revulsion to deter him from what he saw to be his duty to the Emperor. And much as he wanted to wash his hands of the whole filthy matter, he felt a certain reluctance to give the sadistic Korean officer a free hand. He watched Wan Fu’s body drift slowly astern while he decided what to do. Then, turning away from the rail, he walked back to the well- deck amidships.

  Ignoring Mihoro’s offer he looked at Kino and nodded. ‘Bring the other prisoner to me, Petty Officer. I will continue the interrogation.’

  As the men of the boarding party advanced towards the stern the surviving Chinese seamen made a wild dash for the side, but this time the guards were on the alert. Two of them moved to cut off his line of escape while the third reached out and his strong hand twisted in the prisoner’s hair. He pulled hard and an unmistakable feminine scream of protest rang out. Two more guards closed in quickly, seized the woman’s arms and hauled her bodily down the wooden steps of the poop, as she fought and struggled to escape.

  Mihoro stepped forward as they dragged her before Aritsu. Without waiting for permission he grasped the prisoner’s sweat-soiled cotton shirt and ripped it off with a savage jerk. He looked at the smooth flawless body and saw the small high breasts tipped with dark nipples. His eyes glistened cruelly and the tip of his tongue passed across his upper lip in anticipation.

  ‘The top half seems to be a woman, sir,’ he leered at the grinning sailors. His hands fumbled at the cord holding up the baggy cotton trousers. It came undone and he watched them slide down to her ankles. ‘And the bottom half undoubtedly is as well.’ He stepped back to admire the view.

  ‘That is enough, Sub-Lieutenant!’ Aritsu snapped sharply. ‘You are an officer - not an animal. Control yourself.’ The commander stepped closer to the prisoner. There was something familiar about the girl. He stared at Chai Chen who rewarded his interest by spitting in his face. Mihoro lunged forward
and struck her across the cheek with his clenched fist, but Aritsu pushed him away with an angry gesture.

  Suma’s captain seemed flustered by the insult. He wiped his cheek with a handkerchief. ‘Yes... of course. Your step-father is Dominguez Alburra. That would account for the De Gama Oil Company’s name on the barrels.’

  Ignoring the dictates of modesty, Chai Chen wriggled like an eel to break free from her captors; but the guards merely tightened their grip on her arms and her naked body arched with pain. ‘You go to hell, pig!’ she hissed at him.

  Aritsu accepted the epithet with a smile as the girl’s identity triggered his memory. The Japanese Intelligence Agency in Macao had kept him well-informed and very little escaped their notice.

  ‘But, of course... Lieutenant Hamilton.’ He did not miss the momentary flicker of fear on the girl’s face as she heard the name. ‘He saved your life when your launch was bombed. And, as I understand it, he has been a constant visitor to your step-father’s home.’ Aritsu paused, to give Chai Chen time to digest the fact that he knew rather more about her activities than she might have expected. ‘That is why you are carrying diesel oil - to refuel the English submarine!’

  Chai Chen knew it was useless to lie. She shivered and, as if suddenly conscious of her nakedness, squeezed her thighs together as she saw the sailors looking at her body. Lowering her head, she stared down at the deck.

  Mihoro’s impatience exploded with a savage snarl. Before Aritsu could stop him, the sub-lieutenant stepped forward and, motioning the guards to hold her securely, he raked his clawed hands along the girl’s rigid body. Chai Chen endured the indignity in silence until the probing fingers found a new and more subtle way to hurt her, and the Korean smirked with complacent satisfaction as he heard her soft whimper of disgust.

  1Leave her alone, Sub-Lieutenant!’

  Mihoro retreated reluctantly. The expression on his face was like that of a child deprived of its favourite toy. He stared at his erstwhile victim and his eyes glittered at the memory as he saw the ugly marks left by his fingers. Aritsu swallowed back his anger, regained his composure, and steeled himself for the distasteful task that lay ahead.

  ‘It is useless to resist,’ he told Chai Chen quietly. ‘Nothing can save the English submarine. If you tell me the rendezvous position I might be able to persuade Lieutenant Hamilton to surrender. There is no other way in which his life can be saved. But I am powerless to help him unless I know where the refuelling is to take place.’ Chai Chen continued to stare at the deck and Aritsu made one last despairing effort to persuade her. ‘If you continue to remain silent I will be forced to hand you over to the Sub-Lieutenant. And if I do, you will undoubtedly suffer a great deal of unnecessary pain. Make no mistake about it - your obstinacy will be broken in the end and you will tell me everything I want to know. Why not be sensible?’ Chai Chen raised her head slowly. She stared at Aritsu as if judging the sincerity of his offer and then glanced at Mihoro. She turned away with a shiver as she read the cruelty in the Korean’s face.

  ‘I know nothing,’ she said simply.

  Aritsu closed his eyes for a brief moment as if suffering a spasm of physical pain. Then, with a stiffly formal bow, he walked to the side where the motorboat was waiting to take him back to Suma. Mihoro followed him like a dog eager to be loosed in search of a rabbit.

  ‘You may proceed with the interrogation of the prisoner, Sub-Lieutenant,’ he instructed the Korean. ‘Report to me when you have obtained the information. You have precisely thirty minutes to achieve your object.’

  Aritsu acknowledged Mihoro’s salute and climbed down into the motorboat. Settling himself in the stern, he placed his fingertips together in an attitude of prayer and tried to come to terms with his conscience, as the launch reversed away from the junk and turned its bows in the direction of the waiting destroyer. The commander sat in contemplative silence for several minutes and then, as if forcing himself to perform an act of penance for his sins, he turned his head and stared back at the junk.

  He could not see what Mihoro was doing, but Chai Chen was already tied spread-eagled and naked against the side of the deckhouse and the steel blade of the bayonet which the Korean was holding in his right hand glistened in the sun. Aritsu shuddered as her first screams echoed across the water.

  Hamilton waited until the hands of the control room clock settled exactly on 11-59, before easing himself out of his canvas chair and moving to the center of the compartment. The heat and humidity inside the submarine was unbearable and, in spite of his earlier warnings to the crew, his hooked fingers scratched relentlessly at a patch of inflamed and itching skin around his waist. He felt tired and dirty, and was acutely conscious of the unpleasant odour of the stale sweat clinging to his unwashed body.

  Despite the personal discomforts, however, Hamilton was still optimistic and he was well satisfied with the efforts of Rapier's crew. Even Villiers, the young fourth hand, had turned out to be an unexpected asset. During a recent tour of duty with the Diplomatic Corps in Tokyo, he had made frequent trips to the Japanese island of Kuro to observe and learn the secrets of the pearl divers - and it was this knowledge which Hamilton had made good use of.

  With Villiers’ ability to dive and remain underwater for upwards of two minutes at a time with no more specialized equipment than a heavy stone and a primitive nose-clip, it had proved possible to repair the damage to the fuel tank while the submarine lay stopped on the surface during the night. Admittedly with the tools available, it was a rough and ready job - canvas and a wooden plug - but it was adequate for the purpose. And as a result Hamilton had been able to reach the pre-arranged rendezvous without forcing Rapier beyond her normal cruising speed. With fuel supplies dwindling by the hour, economy was an all- important consideration...

  ‘12 o’clock, sir,’ Scott reported from the chart tables. ‘We should be in exactly the right position according to the DR plot.’

  ‘Well done, Pilot. Up periscope!’

  The men in the control room watched expectantly as Hamilton carried out a quick preliminary sweep of the horizon, and waited quietly while he worked his way slowly around the full circle. It was apparent from the tension in his hands and the set of his shoulders that the rendezvous vessel was nowhere in sight; but the expression on his face gave nothing away as he closed the steering handles with a decisive snap and stepped back from the column.

  ‘Down periscope!’ He turned to Scott. ‘Are you quite certain of our position, Pilot?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I took some star sights an hour before dawn.

  Even allowing for an unexpected alteration in the wind, I’d guarantee we’re within a mile of the position you gave me yesterday.’

  Hamilton rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Despite his outward skepticism, he had complete faith in Scott’s ability as a navigator. So, for the moment, he could only assume that Album’s supply vessel had not arrived. Unless - and he tried to keep the suspicion out of his mind - something had happened to it.

  ‘What direction is Macao, Alistair?’

  Scott checked the chart. ‘North-east by east, sir.’

  Hamilton waited for five minutes, raised the periscope again, and drew another blank. He was certain that Alburra would not let him down, but where the hell was his ship?

  ‘Stand by to surface. Duty Watch to close up - negative deck party.’ He glanced at Scott apologetically. ‘It’s not that I doubt you, Alistair, but I want another sun sight.’

  Scott grinned understandingly and reached for his sextant. Then, moving across to the conning tower ladder, he waited to follow the duty watch up on deck.

  ‘Surface!’

  ‘Up helm ’planes! Blow main ballast and close all vents!’

  ‘Ten feet, sir.’

  Hamilton started up the ladder, unclipped the upper hatch, and pushed it open. The normally clean-tasting sea air seemed slightly tainted with oil fumes but he put it down to the fuel leak from the damaged bunker and, dismissing it from his mind, hauled hims
elf up on to the bridge. Picking up his glasses he carried out a quick preliminary sweep of the horizon, while the look-outs hurried to their positions on the port and starboard sides of the conning tower.

  ‘What do you make of the oil slick, sir?’ Scott asked casually, peering over the side as he lifted his sextant from its case.

  Hamilton glanced down at the sea. The surface of the water was streaked by oil and, for a few moments, he assumed it must be coming from Rapier’s own damaged tank. A more careful examination, however, revealed that the rainbow tinted trail stretched well ahead of the submarine’s beam. So it couldn’t be leaking fuel from the bunker. At first he thought it must mark the grave of a recently sunken ship, but the slick was too long and narrow - and the oil seemed fresh rather than dirty. He called Scott over for a discussion.

  A detailed search with their binoculars revealed that the slick was spreading over a wider area to the south, rather than to the north and, significantly, it seemed to be thicker on the surface ahead of the bows where it had apparently had less time to disperse. Having compared notes, they agreed that the slick was following the direction of the wind which was blowing astern and from the south. Consequently, the source lay somewhere to the north. Any further speculation was abruptly ended by a sudden shout from the port look-out.

  ‘Ship hull down and dead ahead, sir!’

  Hamilton put the binoculars to his eyes and saw the ungainly sails of a large junk peeping coyly over the rim of the horizon.

  ‘Full ahead together! Deck parties to stand by.’

  But even as Rapier increased speed towards the distant vessel Hamilton could feel his optimism slowly evaporating. The oil on the surface boded bad news and the fact that the junk was drifting before the wind and away from the rendezvous position suggested that something was seriously wrong.