A Twist Of Sand

"Have to make arrangements to get that damn great plane in here without wrecking itself in the bomb-holes. More joy for the pick-and-shovel brigade." He. looked at me with respect.

"You must be quite a boy in your own way," he said. Fancy sending a special plane out to fetch you. Personal service in war-time _

me!"

The C.O. looked thoughtful. "When do you think the Lancaster will arrive?"

Blacklock laughed. "He'll have time for a night's sleep. I'll give you the E.T.A when Gib. signals it. I don't know which will be worse, trying to bring her in at night, or during the day when the Jerries are sure to pick her up. We could get her away better at night, though," he mused, "but, Christ! can I get her off that piddling little runway? I hope they have the good sense to fill her up at Gib." He turned to me with a grin. "You'd remember it all your life if Malta fell because we used up all our petrol to fly out one of the Admiralty's favourite torpedo-boys."

Blacklock excused himself and shot off, with characteristic energy, to cope with the physical problem of handling the big machine. The C.O. was silent for a long time.

"Why do they want me in London?" I asked. After all, the Admiralty doesn't send a special plane for a submarine officer just because he sinks a battleship. Other submariners had done every bit as well and there were other men just as able, if not more so, than myself. My tired brain, a little muzzy now with the gin, simply balked at the mental jump and would not go over it.

So I said to the C.O.: "Tell me if you can, why should the Admiralty want me in such a hurry? They don't just want to pat me on the back for being a good boy."

"Geoffrey, I don't know any more than you do. I could think of some reasons, but they're obscure and I'm sure they don't fit. But you can take it from me, if the Admiralty can take the trouble to arrange and send out a bomber — and if the R.A.F. is willing to let it go at this particular juncture of the war — then you're a damn important personage, make no mistake. Just think of the paper work alone to get the R.A.F. to lend one of its precious bombers to the Navy! It looks like a decision which couldn't have been made except at the very highest level — maybe even the chiefs of staff. I could imagine the hell any service head would kick up at being told to send one of his fighting units for the purpose of picking up just one man. You're in cottonwool from now on, Geoffrey. No risks. No courageous wanderings when there's a raid on. You'll take orders from me to keep yourself as safe as a new-born prince."

I grimaced: "Yesterday I was simply a submarine commander who felt he'd done a job of work. I hadn't had a bath for three weeks. Now I feel unclean with all this limelight focused on me. I felt better on the bridge of the Trout. In the light of all this," I burst out, "it's a pity the Ities didn't get Trout — to hell with ' utmost priority! '

The C.O. said harshly: "You can keep that sort of maudlin talk for somewhere else. Those boys of yours are a damn fine bunch, and I wouldn't like to think of them at the bottom of the sea just because you're facing something you don't know." He stood up and eyed me unrelentingly. "You'd better get a good night's rest. We'll try and get you out of here sometime to-morrow if the raids are not too heavy."

I suppose that at that time there were fewer drearier places than the huts grouped round Malta's much-bombed airfield. For the hundredth time I changed my position on the scuffed, hard chair and pulled up my greatcoat collar, not only to keep out the chill, but the unrelieved glare of the unshaded lights. The place looked stark, kicked about; indeed it was. It was no fitting portal of glory for the men who, day after day, set their faces against the impossible odds of the great bombing squadrons which sought to destroy not only the airfield, but Malta itself. Blacklock had been hovering around, but his main concern was chivvying the weary workers filling in bomb craters from the last raid of the day, and trying to get a few precious extra yards of runway to help the heavy Lancaster bomber off the field. I could see he was inwardly dubious. Gibraltar had given us a short signal about five hours ago that the plane had left there; we weren't likely to have any more news until she arrived after the long 1,000-mile haul from the Rock.

The pulsing of heavy engines cut the thick silence of the early hours.

Blacklock joined me. "I hope to God they don't pile that monster up on my runways," he said. "It's bad enough having to give them our precious petrol, but it would be hell if they chewed up what's left of the airfield. Besides," he added, "after these top priority signals, I've got to swaddle you in cottonwool. If they don't get that bloody great thing off the deck again, I feel they'll court martial me. You'll probably be beyond the powers of court martial if she doesn't lift." He grinned, but he was nervous.

The flarepath came on.