A Twist Of Sand

I sat long with this imaginary scene in my mind. Was it wishful thinking? I asked myself. I for one would have put forward the argument, as a submarine captain, of the need to relax and surface. What would happen in the interior of a submarine after a month under water? True, in NP I the air would not foul as in ordinary craft, but what about the stink of humanity, the accumulation of refuse if operating in enemy waters, and the green slime which would coat everything inside the U-boat? What would happen to the physical state of the men themselves? Would they get sick from some as yet unknown effects of long submersion? And — this was a wayward thought — was NP I quite foolproof in her machinery? Might there not be some poisonous exudation from this new-fangled nuclear propulsion? It came to me as I sat there in the pleasant sunshine that, perfect though NP I might be mechanically, the human element, particularly the human element trained in more conventional craft, would not stand up to the strain of the war at sea as well as her designers thought. NP I must find herself a haven, a nook away from the world. If I were Hans Tutte, that is what I would do. Somewhere safe to let the men smoke, swim and tan their bodies in the warm sun. This, I convinced myself, was the true Achilles heel of NP I. A base, a haven, a hidey-hole… she must have it.

The relief of having made some positive contribution to my problem was so great that it was some time before I realised that old Captain Peace was talking rationally. I saw that he was rational and his eyes had lost their uncomprehending look.

He stretched out his hand. "Geoffrey!" he exclaimed with pleasure. "Blast me, I never expected to have a real sailor at hand for my last voyage."

I muttered something about everything being well.

"Balls!" he said heartily. "I'm a dead duck, and you know it. What have you been doing with yourself? Why are you in England and not at sea? You didn't leave your submarine just to come and watch an old man die, did you?"

He rose up against his pillows with a burst of violent energy which had characterised him throughout his life.

England's enemies, beware of men like old Captain Peace, I thought to myself.

"No," I said steadily and I saw it cheered him at once. "Special orders."

"No tell, eh? "he laughed.

What the hell, I thought suddenly to myself. Why not tell him? He'd probably be dead before nightfall anyway. Somewhere in that vast accumulation of sea lore there might be something which would help me sink NP I. It would also help me, the unburdening of this terrible secret. I got up and closed the door.

I told him about my mission. I told him the details, the pros and the massive cons; I told him about Hans Tutte and what I would do in his place; I told him that I was convinced that NP I needed a base — of sorts. The old man's eyes gleamed and then filled with tears.

"Geoffrey," he said in a whisper. "It breaks my heart to know what England has against her, and I can't do a mortal bloody damn about it." Then the self-pity died out of his voice and he asked strongly: "Where is NP I going to operate?"

"In the South Atlantic," I replied.

"If only I had a ship," he exclaimed. "God, I know it like my hand. None of the islands. Plenty of skulking holes in South America, though, but not the place for a rest cure with that climate. I'd go for Africa, if it were me. Too many people around, too, and the Navy is not so stupid that it wouldn't search across the trade routes to Buenos Aires. That's what put Harwood on to the Graf Spee," he chuckled.

"Africa has the same disadvantages," I pointed out.

"Bad climate in the tropics, too many people. Even if they are blacks."

"South West Africa," cried the old man waving a pyjamaed arm." He was very excited.

"Not a harbour worth a damn between Tiger Bay, Walvis Bay and Cape Town," I said, bitterly disappointed now that I had mentioned the operation to a wandering old man on his death-bed. "I mentioned it to the Admiralty."

"God's truth!" roared the old sailor. "Admiralty! Why, that Captain Williams hydrographer-bastard wouldn't even look at my soundings. Get me a chart, boy — in my desk. No, not the Admiralty one — there's one of my own. What size is NP I? Three thousand tons? By the Lord Harry, she'd just about make it!"

He looked very excited and I slipped from the room. His desk was pure chaos. Papers, charts, maps, old ship chandler's orders, all kinds of nautical junk littered it. I rummaged about and saw a handwritten "last will and testament of Simon Peace, master mariner." I found what the old man must regard as "his chart "- it looked, at first glance, like a stretch to the south of Angola, heavily annotated with figures. I went back.

The moment I set foot in the room I knew what had happened. A glance at the mottled, congested face told its own story. I ran swiftly to the door and called for the nurse. He lay back gasping and coughing, like a seaman full of chlorine gas.