A Twist Of Sand

Another hour ticked ponderously by. John stood like a statue, and the others might have been hypnotised into frozen flesh, except that they were sweating more heavily now. Once I caught a fleeting exchange of glances between the sub at the "fruit machine "and the navigator. They still thought I was crazy, maybe even crazier after a silent action stations vigil of more than six hours. Up above the sun must be starting to sag towards St. Helena. For hours I studied the small inset chart of Curva dos Dunas, until I think I knew every fathom mark, every obstruction, every sandbar. I glanced at the clock. After five! Weary with the long inactivity, I decided to speak to Bissett myself. After hours at the hydrophones, even his sensitive ears — and they were the keenest in the boat — would be deadening. I edged into his cubicle. My rubber-soled shoes made no noise. Elton was lounging next to Bissett.

I caught his whispered words before he saw me.

"… crackers. Up the creek. Reckon Jimmy the One thinks so too. You've been listening for eight hours — for what? A farting whale. If that isn't plumb crackers…"

"Elton," I said softly, and he froze. He turned swiftly and faced me. There was a half sardonic grin on his face which triggered off the accumulated tension of hours of nerve strain within me.

He opened his mouth, but he never said what he intended to. I hit him across the side of the neck, a savage blow meant for a street fight, a muscle-ripping, cruel lunge with the edge of my forearm. He sagged like a rag doll and sat down with a heavy thump, his senseless eyes rolling back with fear.

Bissett looked aghast and did the sensible thing by concentrating on his job. I felt sick, and deeply ashamed of myself. The savagery of my pent-up feelings had mute witness in the sorry picture half propped against the bulkhead. I felt his pulse. Well, I hadn't killed him.

Suddenly a ripple ran through Bissett, like a pointer sighting his game.

"Sir! sir!" he whispered urgently.

"What is it, man?" I rapped out.

He didn't hear me. His whole being was listening.

"Confused noises bearing red one-five," he said slowly. "Getting stronger."

I could barely utter the words. "Is it the same…?"

He nodded.

He looked up and smiled.

"Coming this way all right, sir. Lot of ground echoes, but quite clear. Same as last night."

I snatched an earpiece and listened. Yes, there it was, the same deadly thump, like a man dragging a leg.

I knew all I wanted to know.

I shot through to the control room.

"Continuous readings," I snapped as I left him.

"Group up, slow ahead. Revolutions for four knots. Stand by all tubes. Plot? Firing angle? Range? Enemy course? Speed?"

Trout was galvanised. The attack routine went into deadly, efficient action.

"Thirty feet," I said. That would give me the opportunity to fire either by periscope or on the hydrophone hearing, although I preferred the former.

"Slow ahead." I'd close the range as near as I dared in the shallow water. There was the danger that Trout might break surface if I fired a full salvo.

The planesman spun his wheel and the water blew.

Trout rose silently off the sand and glided upwards.

Then it happened.

The inclinometer went mad. Trout's bows lifted like a mad thing and she spun half on her side, throwing John and myself together in a heap under the "fruit machine."

"God's death!" I swore. Davis was fighting like a maniac with the planes, but Trout bucked and kicked like an untamed broncho. He was cursing, softly, but with horrible fluency. If Trout's bows reared out of the water — it would be the end of us.

Then her nose dipped and the compass card swung madly. With a sick realisation I knew that the tide-race had us inexorably in its grip. My attack plan had gone haywire in a matter of seconds.

"For Christ's sake!" I screamed at Davis. "Get her under control! Keep her bows steady…"

Loose things fell about the conning-tower and I kicked away with savage anger a pair of shoes which seemed to materialise and try and attach themselves to me. The inclinometer bubble swung beserkly.

"God's teeth!" I raved and screamed, all my nerves shot to hell. NP I in my sights and Trout's trim so impossible that I simply couldn't fire!

"Blow the main tanks," I shouted. "No, belay that."

I knew I was beaten. There was only one thing to do. Get down on the seabed and try and sort things out while the deadly foe went on his way — unharmed. But at least I would have a look at him.

"Up periscope." I gripped the handles.