A Twist of Sand

The tiny contortions of the object might have been the contours of Malta's beleaguered and embattled island itself. It symbolised, since it was our emblem, the hectic and wonderful days in H.M. Submarine Trout. The thin high scream of the drunken German as he stood transfixed, staring down at it, his three drinking-companions stunned into sober silence, called back from the past the death-whine of the Stukas as they plummeted down remorselessly on the convoys to the fortress at bay, or on the Dockyard itself.

As he screamed and screamed, a choking, sobbing gurgle : started to strangle his vocal chords. His eyes were wide and staring; they had the look not only of an imbecile, but of a maniac. The gurgle might have been the sinister chuckle the torpedo gives as it leaves the tube on its death-dealing mission, followed by the long, lover-replete sigh of compressed air from its intricate mechanism.

I was transported from the pleasant Swakopmund bar whose peace was now so torn to nerve-searing hysteria by the petrified German, back again seventeen years.

War.  Mediterranean.   1941.

The graticules of the periscope cleared, fogged, and then cleared again, like consciousness trying to break through a curtain of sleep. Then the tip of the attack periscope was clear of the water, and the giant Littorio class battleship lay in my vision.

"Bearing now and range ?" I asked, my eyes glued to the rubber eyepiece.

"Director angle green two-oh," came the calm reply.

"Range six thousand."

A longish shot, but a battleship like that was worth any risk, particularly as the firing angle was good.

I kept my eyes riveted. I could feel the rising tension in H.M. Submarine Trout, although all of us were battle-hardened. For this was war, and the shallow Mediterranean had been the grave of many a fine British submarine. My orders had been explicit -- and difficult. After Taranto the Italians had patched up their battle fleet, badly damaged by the daring of the Fleet Air Arm in the famous night strike against the port, and Intelligence believed that one of the least damaged, the Littorio class now running into my sights, was to undergo trials. My orders were simple: sink her on her trials. No other targets, however inviting, which might come my way. I was to patrol off Naples, round the islands of Ischia and Capri, and sink the battleship when she came out.

I smiled grimly at the casual rider which had been added to my orders: "Air and surface cover will be heavy."

Across the calm sea it proved to be all too true. The battleship, her bow-wave creamy against the blue sea, was surrounded by destroyers. I counted eight or nine, but it seemed there might be even one or two more on the far side. Four Cant flying-boats hovered protectively. They meant business. So did H.M.S. Trout. I had had the torpedoes set at twenty feet, so that they would pass underneath the destroyers if they were in the line of fire. John Garland was at my elbow in the control room, calm, assured, as he always was under attack.

"Take a quick look," I told him.

He bent down and when he rose his eyes were eloquent, but he said nothing. No use working up the crew unnecessarily. The battleship creamed into my sights. I touched the firing push.

"Fire one!"

The boat jumped, and there was the tell-tale pressure on the ears as the compressed air escaped and the torpedo leapt on its deadly mission.

"Down periscope."

"Fire two!" -- five seconds intervals only, for the battleship was making twenty-eight knots.

"Fire three!  Fire four!"

"Four torpedoes running, sir."

"Course two-seven-five.  Full ahead."

Trout dived. The next fifteen minutes would tell whether we would live or not. It would also tell whether my hunch regarding the shelf off Ischia was right. The dice were cast.

I went to the chart table and called John over. I pointed to the soundings.

"We are just here," I said, almost as if he didn't know as well as I did. "If you look along here, you'll see there is a rough line of equal soundings. Over towards Ischia the land intrudes and it makes, in fact, almost a shelf. Over the shelf is another deeper patch."

John leaned over and grinned wryly:   "Only 110 feet."

"It's enough," I said curtly. "If we can get Trout into this little hollow, those Itie destroyers will have to come mighty close to get at us. The shelf will break the force of the depth-charges, and over here " -- I stabbed the chart --  "there'll be such an echo back from the land that their Asdic won't pick us up. Same thing with the hydrophones. . . ."

There was a thump from outside Trout. Another. And another.

"Three hits, sir!" exclaimed young Peters. The tension broke. Everyone was all smiles.

"Well done, sir! "John was jubilant.

"Going up to have a look?" he inquired tentatively.

"No," I said briefly. "Unless you want us to get scuppered on the turn. I give it five minutes before the ashcans come."

Trout drove on towards her one slim chance of safety. Waiting for a depth-charge attack is probably as bad as the attack itself.