A Twist Of Sand

My share of the mail, in my tiny cubbyhole of a cabin with only its worn green curtain separating me from the rest of the.submarine, looked uninspiring. There didn't even seem to be a personal letter among the lot. I felt depressed at the stark little pile of letters and papers, all typewritten. No loving hand to smooth my way, I thought grimly. The whole depression of the mission hit me again. In London it was Trout's lack of even a sporting chance that had shaken me; deep under the South Atlantic tonight it was the awareness that the chance was never likely to occur at all.

I ripped open the mail. One bore the superscription "Hodgson, Hodgson and Hodgson, Lincoln's Inn Fields, London." It was from my grandfather's lawyers. The dry phrases seemed utterly sterile. "We have to inform you, as the sole legatee of the late Captain Simon Peace…" It seemed the old man had left me about Ј500 and a miscellaneous collection of old nautical instruments and charts. I'd taken some of the old charts with me from his desk the day he died, anyway. I'd not looked at them.

Then came a rustle amid the dry legal phrases: "You will notice from the enclosed copy of Captain Simon Peace's will that you have been bequeathed, in terms of it, the island of Curva dos Dunas, stated by the late Captain Peace to lie in 17' 30" S n' 48" E. A title deed, apparently legal, filed with the former German Administration of South West Africa, is attached. Owing to war-time restrictions on the availability of charts and maps, we have been unable to establish the identity of this island. The Admiralty states that it cannot disclose any such information in war-time but added, confidentially, that it was unaware that any islands existed in that part of the South Atlantic. The Admiralty, however, refuse to disclose what specific area of the South Atlantic it was referring to. However, we enclose a copy of the title deed for your perusal and suggest that when conditions are more settled, a thorough investigation be made into the whereabouts and value of this property. We await your instructions as to its disposal at a later date."

The old bastard! I thought amusedly to myself. So he had an island tucked away and no one knew anything about it! Well, it was easy enough for me to find out. I went through to the navigation table and pulled out an Admiralty chart "Bahia dos Tigres to Walvis Bay "with the annotation "principally from the German Government charts to 1930." I checked off the position in the letter with the dividers.

It was about twenty miles south of the mouth of the Cunene River. There was no sign at all of an island. Curva dos Dunas? I double-checked the position. There it was — a foul looking piece of coast, if ever there was one, with broken water and shoals all over the place, but no sign of Curva dos Dunas. There were plenty of isolated rocks which pass as islands south of Walvis Bay, but nothing so far north, or near the mouth of the Cunene, which is the international boundary between South West Africa and Angola.

I was puzzling over the little mystery when the hydrophone operator's voice reached me clearly.

"Captain in the control room," called John.

"What is it, John?" I asked.

"Bissett's getting some odd noises," he said. "He just can't identify them."

"H.E?" I asked.

"No, hell," laughed John. "Elton says it's all Bissett's imagination, but you know Bissett is the best we have."

"I'll go and have a look and listen myself," I said.

Bissett had the earphones over his head and Elton, his relief and junior, was standing by, looking rather bored and amused.

"Listen to that, sir," said Bissett, giving me one earpiece.

At first I could hear nothing. Then there was a kind of gurgling noise, very faint, and then a slight, resonant hiss, almost like a bubble slowly bursting under water. It kept repeating in a kind of cycle. In the background there was a slight churning noise.

I simply couldn't make it out.

"Propellers!" I asked tentatively.

"No, definitely not," replied Bissett. "But it's moving sir. Left to right, about ten knots, I reckon."

"About south-east," I reflected aloud.

"Sounds to me like a whale farting," commented Elton.

The remark stung me, epitomising as it did the slack attitude of the crew on this warm-weather cruise.

I turned savagely on Elton: "Another remark like that, Elton, and you'll find yourself in serious trouble."

"Sorry, sir," he muttered, but the contemptuous amusement was not entirely gone from his face.

"It's slowing, sir," said Bissett.

"I'm going to follow it," I told him. "Keep on to it and don't let me lose it. If it speeds up, let me know."

I went back into the control room!" Steer one-six-oh," I told John. "Seven knots."

"Aye, aye sir," he said. "Plot?"

"No." I said. I drew him on one side. "Frankly, John, I haven't a solitary clue what we are following, but I can't stand this bloody square search a moment longer. Anything is better than that."

"Aye, aye, sir," he grinned.