A Twist Of Sand

The tip burst wildly through the water and for a moment my eyesight reeled before a drunken, swinging vista of sky and white water. With that up top, it was scarcely any wonder that Trout was behaving like a madman below, in the shallow water. The periscope lifted fifteen feet out of the water in a horrid swaying arc, and I prayed silently that the look-outs on NP I wouldn't spot it. Through the white water and blue sky, deepening in the coming evening, I caught a glimpse of NP I. The narrow conning-tower stood up frail and delicate like an aircraft wing, and in that split moment I saw how lovely her lines were. She headed unwaveringly towards the entrance to Curva dos Dunas.

"Down periscope," I ordered briefly, calm now that the great moment was passed.

"Take her down," I said briefly. "Eighty feet."

The Skeleton Coast had won. NP I had got away — almost in my sights. As the water poured into her tanks, Trout steadied up a little and then, almost magically below sixty feet, regained her composure. The boat was a shambles.

"Take her down," I said, almost abstractedly. "Clear up this bloody mess."

Bissett's voice came through clearly.

"Stop that bloody row!" I snarled. What he could tell me would be of no use to me now. I knew where NP I was headed.

Trout subsided with a faint thump, like a breathless athlete.

"Take over," I said to John. I wanted time to plan a new course of action. "Break off the action. Crew to normal stations."

"Aye, aye, sir," came the reply.

I went to the cubbyhole which passed for my private cabin. I sat down wearily, and as I did so the fetid smell of sweat came up. The sweat of fear. Yes, I was frightened; that delicate, airy conning-tower of NP I had struck the fear of God into me. For a split second I felt almost glad that the Skeleton Coast had intervened and prevented my firing the death-dealing salvo. I pushed the thought aside. I had missed my big chance — through no fault of my own — and now the odds would be twice what they were. Bitterly I cursed the tide-race and the variable density of water which had sent Trout rocketing about. I had never reckoned on it.

Anyway, there was nothing I could do about that now. What I had learned was that the Skeleton Coast always laughs last.

I took old Simon's inset chart of Curva dos Dunas and laid it before me on the minute scrap of wood which passed for a table. Mines! I could slip back to Simonstown and load with mines and finish off NP I. It would mean leaving Curva dos Dunas unguarded, but then, either inside or out on a cruise, NP I would sink herself in the channel. Neat and easy, and no danger to Trout. I had almost sold myself on the idea of mines when I remembered the tide-race. No, it would be quite impossible to lay mines in the channel with the race sweeping out seawards. Trout would blow herself up — since they would sweep down on her as she laid them. To lay them from the inside would be equally impossible, as Trout would then be bottled up by her own mines.

The Skeleton Coast had won again.

I glanced at my watch and I took the decision which I had, through fear, kept rigidly at the back of my mind.

I would take Trout in after NP I.