A Twist Of Sand

Across the calm sea it proved to be all too true. The battleship, her bow-wave creamy against the blue sea, was surrounded by destroyers. I counted eight or nine, but it seemed there might be even one or two more on the far side. Four Cant flying-boats hovered protectively. They meant business. So did H.M.S. Trout. I had had the torpedoes set at twenty feet, so that they would pass underneath the destroyers if they were in the line of fire. John Garland was at my elbow in the control room, calm, assured, as he always was under attack.

"Take a quick look," I told him.

He bent down and when he rose his eyes were eloquent, but he said nothing. No use working up the crew unnecessarily. The battleship creamed into my sights. I touched the firing push.

"Fire one!"

The boat jumped, and there was the tell-tale pressure on the ears as the compressed air escaped and the torpedo leapt on its deadly mission.

"Down periscope."

"Fire two!" — five seconds intervals only, for the battleship was making twenty-eight knots.

"Fire three! Fire four!"

"Four torpedoes running, sir."

"Course two-seven-five. Full ahead."

Trout dived. The next fifteen minutes would tell whether we would live or not. It would also tell whether my hunch regarding the shelf off Ischia was right. The dice were cast.

I went to the chart table and called John over. I pointed to the soundings.

"We are just here," I said, almost as if he didn't know as well as I did. "If you look along here, you'll see there is a rough line of equal soundings. Over towards Ischia the land intrudes and it makes, in fact, almost a shelf. Over the shelf is another deeper patch."

John leaned over and grinned wryly: "Only 110 feet."

"It's enough," I said curtly. "If we can get Trout into this little hollow, those Itie destroyers will have to come mighty close to get at us. The shelf will break the force of the depth-charges, and over here " — I stabbed the chart — "there'll be such an echo back from the land that their Asdic won't pick us up. Same thing with the hydrophones…"

There was a thump from outside Trout. Another. And another.

"Three hits, sir!" exclaimed young Peters. The tension broke. Everyone was all smiles.

"Well done, sir! "John was jubilant.

"Going up to have a look?" he inquired tentatively.

"No," I said briefly. "Unless you want us to get scuppered on the turn. I give it five minutes before the ashcans come."

Trout drove on towards her one slim chance of safety. Waiting for a depth-charge attack is probably as bad as the attack itself.

"H.E bearing dead astern sir," came the report.

We waited for it. The destroyer was on our tail all right. I wanted those extra minutes of the submarine's speed, however. I would wait till the last minute. The crash shook us all over. Pieces of cork fell down, but the lights remained on.

"One hundred feet. Slow ahead together. Silent routine."

Now I could hear, as everyone else in the boat could, the crash of propellers overhead. The destroyer was overshooting us, but soon the rest would be round us like flies.

I tore my thoughts away from the attack.

"No evasive action," I ordered.

That shelf and the shallow depression beyond were really my only hope. The water all round was too shallow to stave off an attack by eight or more destroyers, even given the luck. Three-quarters of a mile to relative safety. Three knots only. Only a whisper from the men. Overhead the crash of more propellers.

"Discontinue asdic bearings," I whispered.

The rating looked amazed. But my course was dead ahead. I wasn't going to try and outwit the destroyers — yet. With a little luck, they might plump for the evasive routine.

Crump!!!

A pattern of five reverberated, slightly on the port bow. The destroyers, now between us and the hole in the seabed, had believed I would turn away after the first attack.

He had chosen port, but he might as easily have made it starboard. It was anyone's guess. More thrashing of propellers slightly astern, followed almost at once by a pattern of five depth charges. This one would call up his fellows to make short work of us.

Haifa mile to go. I held Trout due east. Soon I would have to rise to eighty feet so as not to stick my nose into the shelf. Twenty precious feet — it could mean life or death.

They, were really on to us now. Three patterns broke all the lights, and the deadly cold little emergency lights came on. Dust seemed to come from everywhere.

"Eighty feet," I ordered in an undertone; John passed it on.

Young Peters blinked in astonishment. I could see what was in his mind — "no use going to meet it; why not stay down here?"

I had to risk the noise of the ballast tanks blowing. As they blew a deep pattern exploded next to Trout but, as luck would have it, the moment we rose. At our previous depth it would have been fatal. Trout glided over the hummock in the sea-bed.

"Hard-a-starboard!" I said tersely. "One hundred and ten feet."