A Twist Of Sand

I broke out in a cold sweat. The noise, that bursting bubble effect — it could well be that the Germans, with all their ingenuity, had abandoned the ordinary propeller and were using a form of hydraulic jet propulsion which ejected the water in exactly the same way that a squid sucks water into its gills and expels it again under high muscular pressure, thus providing its enormous speed and motive power. The thoughts tore through my brain. For a submarine fitted like that — and apparently all the power in the world with which to expel the water — it would be a double advantage, for those death-dealing, tired, trigger-happy men of the North Atlantic escort groups were accustomed to ordinary propeller noises and this new one would deceive them — at least at the outset. I knew hydraulic jet propulsion had been tried out with great success on shallow-draught small craft, but its application to anything else — well, that was a brand-new lesson for the North Atlantic.

Christ! How many precious minutes had I wasted in thinking this out, and for every one of them Trout was in mortal peril! Or had NP I simply not heard us because her hydrophones, listening dead astern, might be confused by the upsurge of ejected water. She had only to change course slightly, and she would hear Trout's asdic, as sure as little fishes were waiting for us at the bottom of the ocean.

I bounded towards Bissett, leaping through the control room as I did so. John and the others there gave me a startled glance.

"Switch that infernal thing off!" I roared to the astonished Bissett. He flicked a switch. I could feel the sweat moistening on my face.

"Same course, same speed?" I snapped.

"Aye, aye, sir," he replied, wonderment written all over his face.

"How long have you been listening to that — that — noise?" I whipped out.

"Ever since you…" he began, but stopped at the look on my face. "Nearly two hours, sir," he replied woodenly.

"You could identify it again?" I asked.

"Why, yes sir…"

"Shut off everything, then. I may want you to listen later. But you will not use any of this listening gear without my express permission. Understood?"

"Aye, aye, sir," he replied. There was equal astonishment as I whirled round and entered the control room.

"I'll take over, Number One," I rapped out to John.

"Slow ahead both! Silent routine! Shut off, as for depth-charging. Absolute silence. No talking. And if anyone so much as drops a damn thing on the plating, I'll have his guts."

John gave me a penetrating look and rapped out a series of orders. Trout eased away from her deadly ocean paramour.

"Course, sir?" asked John.

"Hold her steady on one-six-oh. What's her speed now?"

"Three knots, sir."

"Hold her at that for ten minutes. And then I want just enough way on her to keep her even. Not a fraction of a knot more."

"Shall I sound action stations, sir?" asked John.

"You heard my orders," I snarled. The sweat was trickling down inside my shirt. I took a handkerchief and wiped it away. I saw young Fenton eyeing me apprehensively.

The minutes ticked by. The control room was as tense as if we had been under attack. Six, seven, eight, nine, ten… John gave an order in a low voice.

"Barely steerage way, now, sir."

We waited. I must give her a good half an hour so that we were well out of hearing before I broke surface.

"Take over for a moment," I said to John. I went back to my cubbyhole. I decided that I would navigate myself, using old Simon Peace's magnificently annotated chart.

Even far out in the ocean his soundings were better than the Admiralty's.

I knew exactly what I had to do. I must steer a course away out of immediate danger from NP I. I must also get to Curva dos Dunas before her. That meant a course as close as possible to the deadly one-six-oh degrees which I must assume she would follow. I would now take Trout to the surface and make a break at high speed for Curva dos Dunas, hoping to get there before NP I. I did some quick sums in my head. They had said NP I could do twenty knots submerged. Well, she might, but she had been cruising along gently at seven for the past few hours. I could catch her shortly after daybreak entering the channel, which would give me a good light for firing: it is always tricky firing on a hydrophone bearing alone. I took the detailed map of Curva dos Dunas. There were sixteen fathoms at the. entrance and it was very deep all the way in, although here and there buttresses of sand projected, like waiting claws, into the channel itself. There must be a hell of a tide to scour those channels, I thought. But… how many years ago had these soundings been taken? The Skeleton Coast is notorious for its upheavals, and even whole sections of coastline have changed their contours overnight. I couldn't think about that. I pored over the entrance. I would lie just southwards and… what depth would she come in at? Perhaps on the surface? Only the event would tell. She wouldn't know a thing until they heard Trout's torpedoes running; then it would be too late.