A Twist Of Sand

"Good God, yes!" I exclaimed impatiently. "This gin tastes wonderful."

"Yes, I suppose it does." His probing, assessing gaze irritated me.

"Look sir," I burst out, "I'll give the low-down, charts, position, damage and all the rest of it after I've had a bath. A night's good rest and I'll be ready for sea again."

He got up and stood by the porthole, swilling his drink round and round. Then he faced about suddenly.

"You're not going to sea again."

The shock of his words penetrated only dully. Punch-drunk.

"Not going to sea again?"

"No, Geoffrey."

I laughed grimly: "Battle fatigue — and all that. No reaction. Shaky hands." I drank down the gin at a gulp.

He burst out laughing. "So that's what is eating you! No, it's not that." He waved a signal slip. "Read it for yourself."

"… to report immediately to the Admiralty in London. Special air transport to be arranged for this officer." I gazed in wonderment at him. "What have I done?"

The. other man laughed again. "Search me. But," he added, "the Admiralty certainly saved me a tricky decision. I have lost one of my best fighting men."

"You might have anyway," I rejoined.

"When do I start?" I asked.

"You're still under my orders, and you're spending a couple of days catching up on sleep. The Admiralty will slap on another gong for that little business you've just done, but they can't give you sleep. I can. Lieutenant-Commander Geoffrey Peace, D.S.O. and two Bars, etc., etc. Cheer up man! Meet me in the bar later."

I did. After the utter heaven of a bath and a shave and a complete change of clothes, I felt more like a human being again, although the odd feeling of looking at the normal world through the wrong end of a telescope persisted.

"Utmost priority!" The Royal Air Force officer, suitably moustached, threw back his head and roared with laughter. "Christ!" He turned angrily to me. "What do any of these bloody brass hats know about utmost priority? Have you seen the airfield? As full of craters as a whore's face! And I have to give you top priority to fly out of here! I couldn't fly out a flippin' boy's kite, let alone a naval officer." He snorted and drained his glass.

"Do you know what's going on here?" he went on. '' We're so bombed to hell that the Ities and Jerries only need to really come over in force and we've had it. Why, one parachute regiment would write off the airfield."

He signalled frantically for more beer.

' You naval types just don't know what's going on around here. A few bombs at sea, but you can always dodge them. And then — home with top priority — out of Malta! Hell!"

The C.O. leaned across to him and I saw the flicker in his eyes. He said quietly: "You're talking to the man who sank the Littorio battleship. Confirmed by air reconnaissance. Your crew rather jumped the gun with that emblem on the conning-tower."

"My God!" he roared. "So you're the… who sank that load of old iron! Torpedoes right up her arse!" He thumped me on the back and the others in the bar turned and grinned at the little comedy being enacted. "… me! And I start a penny lecture about bombs! Barman! Line 'em up for the Admiral!"

At any other time I might have enjoyed his discomfiture and friendly amends, but tonight I wished him as deep down as my victim. Above all, I was aware of my curious sense of separation from the events going on, almost as if I had been a spectator to my own half-tentative efforts to reciprocate. I'd better get drunk, I thought, and when I wake up with a monumental hangover I'll really feel I've done something to justify my double vision.

We drank to my success.

"I'll get you out of here top priority even if I have to fly the bloody thing myself," roared the R.A.F. man. I saw a rating standing nervously in the door and, more nervously still, he made his way through the officers to our group.

"Signal, sir."'

"What the hell" burst out the C.O. "Can't a man have a drink in peace — ' His voice tailed off as he saw the look on the man's face. He jabbed his finger more nervously than ever at the superscription on the signal — "most secret."

The C.O. ripped it open and his right eyebrow rose a little. It was the only form of surprise he ever allowed himself. Otherwise his face, if not his eyes, remained inscrutable.

"Here, Blacklock, this concerns you too."

The R.A.F. man glanced at the signal form. He gave a long whistle. His eyes riveted on me and he made a little sideways gesture of the shoulder to the C.O.

"He might as well know about it, seeing it concerns him most of all."

Blacklock threw down the signal in front of me. "Admiralty to Flag Officer (S) Malta. Lancaster bomber S for Sugar leaving Maddocksford 0400 G.M.T. for Malta to transport Lieutenant-Commander Geoffrey Peace to London. Utmost priority. The expeditious return of this officer to London must be treated as overriding consideration…"

Blacklock was a sound enough man to keep his mouth shut in the bar, but I could see he was thunderstruck.