by Edwyn Gray
Hamilton’s right arm came up before Mannon or anyone else could stop him.
The sudden crack of the revolver sent the birds wheeling into the sky with fright, and Mihoro clutched his stomach as the heavy caliber bullet threw him backwards into the sand. Forcing himself up onto his knees, he stared wide-eyed at the British officer, and then folded forward. It was a slow and agonizing way to die, and the Korean’s body threshed wildly as he tried to staunch the blood with his hands. Hamilton waited a brief moment and then fired again. Mihoro jerked as the bullet struck his head and then, suddenly, he was still.
Every eye was on Hamilton as he turned towards Aritsu and the Japanese Commander braced himself in readiness. Yet, even in the face of death, his expression remained as impassive as ever and he held himself with quiet dignity.
Hamilton lowered the gun and bent forward. He said nothing but, picking up the sword, he walked towards Aritsu and handed it to him hilt-first.
The Japanese officer understood the gesture. He bowed politely, took the weapon from Hamilton’s hands, and bowed again. Unable to control his emotions any longer, he began to weep silently, the tears trickling down his cheeks as he struggled to find the right words.
‘You are a chivalrous man, Lieutenant Hamilton,’ he said very quietly. ‘I pray that my ancestors will look kindly upon you and protect you in battle.’
‘Thank you, Commander. I appreciate that you were only doing your duty as you saw it. The ways of Japan are something that we in Europe will never fully understand.’ Hamilton paused for a moment. ‘Although I know you would never countenance the barbarities employed by your Sub-Lieutenant to obtain information, you have acted in accordance with the traditions of the Imperial Navy by accepting responsibility for what happened because you were the senior officer. You must therefore die - but you may die with honor.’
Aritsu bowed his acknowledgement. Getting down on his knees in front of the lieutenant, he pulled open his bush shirt and unfastened the belt of his uniform trousers. Hamilton swallowed his instinctive revulsion and steeled himself to witness the barbaric, yet strangely noble, ceremony Aritsu was about to perform. Seppuku - ritual suicide.
Grasping the hilt of the sword with both hands the Japanese directed the point of the blade against the center of his stomach, closing his eyes as if summoning up the spiritual strength he needed to perform the act, and with a sudden powerful jerk of his arms, rammed the sword into his body. He uttered no sound despite the agony of the self-inflicted wound and, closing his eyes, he moved the blade upwards to make the first vertical incision.
Hamilton felt the bile rising in his throat but, out of respect for the ancient traditions of a brave man, he forced his unwilling eyes to watch. Blood was already welling from Aritsu’s belly, and the grey-mauve mass of his intestines protruded obscenely from the wound as he centered the point of the sword for the second cut. Mills, the young cockney able seaman from Poplar, who had never even seen a chicken have its throat cut, suddenly rolled his eyes and collapsed on to the sand in a dead faint. The other submariners looked away from the horrific spectacle and prayed it would soon be over. Only Mannon, like his skipper, stood firm and faced it out.
Aritsu paused before the second incision, opened his eyes, and looked up at Rapier's captain. His lips moved but it was impossible to make out what he was trying to say. Then the blade cut to the right, was dragged painfully back to the original point of entry and sliced to the left.
The commander paused for a moment, raised his eyes to the sky, and then collapsed face-forward on to the blood soaked sand - the weight of his body forcing the sword deeper into his vitals. His hands clenched in a spasm of unendurable pain and, in accordance with the ancient traditions of the ritual, Hamilton stepped forward and ended Aritsu’s agony with a single shot through the back of the skull.
Hamilton lowered his head briefly and then, emerging from the almost catalyptic trance which had gripped him during the ceremony, pushed the revolver back into the holster at his hip. He had had a surfeit of killing and Aritsu’s death had blunted his hunger for revenge. He was suddenly sick of the whole useless waste of war.
‘Take the landing party back to the boat, Number One. I want to get away from this damned place before we all go raving mad.’
Mannon passed the order to the petty officer in charge and, as the men lifted the unfortunate Mills to his feet and helped him back to the jetty, the submarine’s executive officer nodded towards the beach.
‘What about the seamen, sir?’
Hamilton shook his head. He had not forgotten the two Japanese sailors. But he had had enough of death for one day. ‘Leave them here, Number One. They can either stay on the island until the Japs send a search ship out - or they can try to make their way back to the mainland in the motorboat.’
Zibuki and his companion stared questioningly at the two British officers as they approached across the narrow stretch of sand. Both men expected to be shot out of hand, and with characteristic fatalism they offered no resistance. The taller officer spoke to them in English, but the language meant nothing to them. They waited for the guns to be unholstered, aimed and fired. The officer spoke to them again, but when they did not respond he shrugged and turned away.
Hitiose Zibuki showed no emotion at the unexpected turn of events. He watched the officers walk slowly back to the submarine and said something to his comrade. Crossing the beach to where Aritsu was lying, they knelt down and began to gather pieces of driftwood to build his funeral pyre
O’Brien was waiting inside the control room as Hamilton and Mannon came down the ladder. He was holding a sheet of paper in his hand.
‘I’ve been checking the fuel reserves as you requested, sir. It doesn’t look too good.’
Hamilton took the notes and glanced down at the figures. ‘How far to Singapore, Alistair?’
The Navigator bent over the small-scale chart with his ruler. ‘Just under fourteen hundred miles, sir.’
‘And Darwin?’
Mannon looked up sharply as Hamilton put the question. Australia! What the hell was the skipper up to- a conducted tour of the British Empire?
‘About double the distance, sir,’ Scott reported. ‘It wouldn’t be a straight run - we’d have to go around Borneo, down through the Celebes Sea, and south via the Molucca Straits. Then…
‘Alright, Alistair, that’s enough. I know what a map of the East Indies looks like.’ He turned to Mannon. ‘Can you see any objection to Australia, Number One?’
‘No, sir. Other than the fact we don’t have enough fuel and your last orders were to report to Singapore.’
‘I’m glad you reminded me, Roger. I’d forgotten all about that,’ Hamilton said equably. ‘But the situation is different now. Hong Kong had surrendered and the Japs are already spearheading a new offensive into the East Indies. They’ve landed in Sarawak and Brunei. With virtually no naval forces to oppose them, I anticipate attacks on Java and Sumutra within the next two weeks. And judging by the speed of the enemy advance through Malaya, I’d say Singapore will have fallen by the end of the month. I have no intention of returning to Singapore and finding myself in a repeat performance of the Hong Kong shambles. As I see it, the whole of Australia is wide open to a Japanese invasion. There are virtually no naval forces south of New Guinea and the Americans are, for the moment, too busy defending themselves. If we were able to operate out of Darwin, Rapier could be Australia’s first fine of defense against a Japanese attack.’ He glanced across at O’Brien. ‘Could we make Darwin, Chief?’ ‘Depends on how much power we might need, sir. A couple of severe storms or a detour to avoid enemy patrols and we certainly wouldn’t. If Scotty can plot the shortest course' to Aussie and we make use of the motors on the surface whenever we can, we might just make it. If you want my personal opinion, sir, I’d say it was touch and go.’ Hamilton smiled. ‘In that case, gentlemen, it’s go!’
Commodore Haslitt got up from his chair, walked across to the window looking out acros
s Fort Hill and Boom Jetty, and flung it open. His office was without air-conditioning and after twenty-two days at sea with only one change of clothing and minimal washing facilities Hamilton did not exactly smell like a fresh spring rose. But with three week’s growth of beard and eyes red-rimmed with exhaustion Hamilton was past caring about personal appearance. The luxury of a hot bath, clean clothes, and a good night’s sleep could come later. His first duty was to report his arrival to the Darwin SNO.
The Commodore returned to his desk and sat down. The sea breeze wafting through the opened window was having the required effect and he sniffed the clean salt air appreciatively, like a medieval judge smelling his nosegay as he passed through the City streets on his way to the Law Courts.
‘You realize, of course, Lieutenant, that the C-in-C (Far East) had been searching the length and breadth of the Pacific for you for the past five weeks.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, but our transmitter was on the blink and I wanted to save the batteries in case we ran out of fuel and had to finish the trip on our motors.”
‘So you said earlier, Lieutenant,’ Haslitt commented drily. ‘But you still haven’t explained why you did not report to Singapore as ordered. The Admiralty will undoubtedly require your explanation.’
‘The situation was very confused, sir.’ Hamilton could not help wondering if the Commodore would be quite so pedantically calm if he’d experienced the first shock of Japan’s blitzkrieg into South-East Asia. In the circumstances he decided that he would be excusable. ‘We were picking up radio reports, sir. I was under the impression that Singapore had fallen. In view of that, I decided to make for Australia.’
Haslitt did not seem very convinced by the explanation but he accepted it without comment. At that precise moment, his greatest desire was to get Hamilton out of his office and into a hot bath and clean clothes. The post mortem could come later.
‘I must admit I am disappointed with your lack of success. It will all have to appear in your written Report of Proceedings, of course, and no doubt the Admiralty will have a few observations to make. But what you’ve been doing with yourself for the last six weeks or so is a mystery to me. You were the only British submarine in the entire area and yet all you succeeded in sinking was one bloody little destroyer!’
Hamilton said nothing. Staring at the blank wall behind the Commodore’s desk, he recalled the night battle in the narrow straits between Kowloon and Hong Kong, the destruction of Firefly, the fate of the refueling junk, and those last terrible hours on Charlotte Island. It was something Haslitt would never understand in a thousand years.
‘And another thing, Lieutenant,’ the Commodore continued. ‘The Foreign Office is after your blood for infringing Portuguese neutrality. Your private arrangements with that damned Macao oil merchant could have international repercussions.’
A picture of Chai Chen’s naked body splayed out and roped to the side of the deckhouse flashed into Hamilton’s mind. He wondered what she would have thought about Portuguese neutrality and International Law. Or, for that matter, Sub-Lieutenant Mihoro. Not that his own actions had been above reproach, and he was curious to know how he was going to explain the Korean’s execution and Aritsu’s suicide. Suddenly he realized he didn’t care any more.
‘I’ll let you have a full written report in the morning, sir. May I have permission to return to my ship?’
‘Permission granted, Lieutenant.’
Hamilton saluted, turned, and walked wearily towards the door. He could not help wondering what the future held for him now. Perhaps he should resign his commission. Or volunteer for service with the Commandos. Anything that would enable him to fight the enemy without the hampering restrictions of rules, regulations and laws. And yet not even total annihilating victory could ever repay the debt owed to people like Chai Chen and Harry Ottershaw, or to Captain Snark and Chen Yu. A sudden shout from the Commodore made him pause in the doorway.
‘By the way Hamilton, you can ship your half-stripe. The New Year promotion list came through a couple of weeks ago. You’ve been made up to Lieutenant Commander. Congratulations.’
But the door was already shut and Hamilton was making his way down the stairs towards the harbour. Haslitt shrugged. Rum sort of a bloke, he concluded. But that was the trouble with some of these upper-yardmen. They might be officers, but one could hardly call them gentlemen....
A Look At: No Survivors, The U-boat Series
Mutiny or murder. These were the stark choices that confronted Kapitan-Leutnant Konrad Bergman. To go against the discipline and training that had been instilled in him from youth and disobey an order. Or to carry out the Fuehrer's command and destroy his own comrades in an act of cold-blooded premeditated murder.
As commander of a U-boat, Bergman had always greedily accepted his orders, lusting after each of his kills with the relentless energies of a primitive predator. Now the harsh realities of war were proving to be somewhat different from the romantic dreams of his youth. But it was too late to change his destiny now.
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Edwin Gray
About the Author
AUTHOR EDWYN GRAY specialized in naval writing, and has occasionally written short stories.
Born in London, Gray pursued his education at the Royal Grammar School, High Wycombe. After reading economics at the University of London, he went on to join the British civil service.
Gray began his career as an author in 1953, writing for magazines. His first novel was published in 1969, and he became a full-time writer in 1980.
READ MORE ABOUT EDWYN GRAY HERE