A Twist of Sand

"Slow ahead both! Silent routine! Shut off, as for depth-charging. Absolute silence. No talking. And if anyone so much as drops a damn thing on the plating, I'll have his guts."

John gave me a penetrating look and rapped out a series of orders. Trout eased away from her deadly ocean paramour.

"Course, sir?" asked John.

"Hold her steady on one-six-oh. What's her speed now ?"

"Three knots, sir."

"Hold her at that for ten minutes. And then I want just enough way on her to keep her even. Not a fraction of a knot more."

"Shall I sound action stations, sir?" asked John.

"You heard my orders," I snarled. The sweat was trickling down inside my shirt. I took a handkerchief and wiped it away. I saw young Fenton eyeing me apprehensively.

The minutes ticked by. The control room was as tense as if we had been under attack. Six, seven, eight, nine, ten. . . . John gave an order in a low voice.

"Barely steerage way, now, sir."

We waited. I must give her a good half an hour so that we were well out of hearing before I broke surface.

"Take over for a moment," I said to John. I went back to my cubbyhole. I decided that I would navigate myself, using old Simon Peace's magnificently annotated chart.

Even far out in the ocean his soundings were better than the Admiralty's.

I knew exactly what I had to do. I must steer a course away out of immediate danger from NP I. I must also get to Curva dos Dunas before her. That meant a course as close as possible to the deadly one-six-oh degrees which I must assume she would follow. I would now take Trout to the surface and make a break at high speed for Curva dos Dunas, hoping to get there before NP I. I did some quick sums in my head. They had said NP I could do twenty knots submerged. Well, she might, but she had been cruising along gently at seven for the past few hours. I could catch her shortly after daybreak entering the channel, which would give me a good light for firing: it is always tricky firing on a hydrophone bearing alone. I took the detailed map of Curva dos Dunas. There were sixteen fathoms at the. entrance and it was very deep all the way in, although here and there buttresses of sand projected, like waiting claws, into the channel itself. There must be a hell of a tide to scour those channels, I thought. But . . . how many years ago had these soundings been taken ? The Skeleton Coast is notorious for its upheavals, and even whole sections of coastline have changed their contours overnight. I couldn't think about that. I pored over the entrance. I would lie just southwards and . . . what depth would she come in at? Perhaps on the surface? Only the event would tell. She wouldn't know a thing until they heard Trout's torpedoes running; then it would be too late.

Were they quite oblivious of us ? There was the sudden slowing-down which Bissett had noticed. What did it mean? Had they . . . no, I rejected the thought desperately. They couldn't have seen Trout's rendezvous with the warships! Dear God! I put myself in the boots of NP I's captain.

He is lying in a good position to sink a couple of British cruisers, and what happens? Suddenly a British submarine breaks surface and the warships sheer off like startled cats. His whole firing plan goes to maggots. He takes a cautious look and sees a strange sight indeed. The destroyers about as hostile as could be -- towards one of their kind. But they would know Trout was in these waters, he argues. And what in the name of all that is holy is a submarine doing lying motionless on the surface while the destroyers circle and one goes in and drops a boat? Hunted as he is, he must jump to the immediate conclusion -- these warships are looking for NP I, and so must the British submarine be. So they know about me! A cold chill runs down his spine. Must I justify NP I at all costs? Sink that nearest destroyer and the submarine? No, that would be too easy, and the others would be right on the trail. Beat it at high speed? Yes. Eighty feet, high speed away to Curva dos Dunas! And by the merest chance, I added grimly, Trout takes an identical course and bashes away merrily in the wake of the deadliest thing afloat, with not a caution or a care in the world! The thought of it made my insides turn over.

I'd had the let-off of my life, I thought without humour, and it's going to cost every man of that wicked U-boat his life. The half hour was up. I picked up the Admiralty chart to give to the navigator as a formality only. I left my own --  old Simon's -- in my cubbyhole. After all, I thought with the first lightening of spirits since the enormity of the whole thing had struck me, it is my island, and I'm going to protect my property, so why should everyone know about it ?

John looked expectant as I came in. It was just after nine o'clock.

"Diving stations.  Stand by to surface," I said briefly.

"Check main vents," rapped out John.

"All main vents checked and shut, sir."

"Ready to surface, sir."

"Surface. I want you on the bridge with me, Number One."