A Twist of Sand

Peters got the idea from the mascot I always carried with me -- one of those things one sees in southern Germany, a rootfern, I think it was, contorted by nature into a replica of a human hand. I had seen it in a little village called Loffingen, near the Black -Forest, in the summer before the war. Loffingen is one of those tiny, quaint little places where an iron-work German eagle hangs on an iron lattice-work above a fountain in the market-place where a bronze boy, on some indefinable errand, clutches a spear. I went for a drink at the inn and, dodging the cluster of bicycles at the entrance, saw the "little lucky hand "(the German notice said) in a tiny shop window adjoining. I carried the little hand in action, and Peters had reproduced it (with liberties) on the conning-tower. Trout was even affectionately known as "The Hand "at the Lazaretto base.

I felt unutterably weary as I brought Trout alongside. The cheers, the sirens, and even the presence of the commander of the base and Dockyard failed to cheer me. Battle fatigue, I thought tiredly. It's when you feel like this that they get you. Even the thought of a long bath and a long gin did not lift the depression which had settled on my spirits.

"Wonderful work, Geoffrey!" exclaimed the C.O. as he came aboard, his quick ebullience spreading round him like an aura. "Come and tell me all about it -- no hell man, don't worry about a written report yet. This is just for my private ear."

He looked at me keenly, noting probably the tight lines round the mouth, the stubble and the typical submariner's pallor.

"I've also got some news for your private ear."

He hustled me away, leaving John to do the donkey work

In his cabin he poured me a stiff gin. I sank into the so: cushions of his own favourite chair, the softness wrapping me round like a cloak.

He jerked out: "When I detailed you for the job, thought you might get her.  But I didn't think you'd make it back."

I looked at the tonic fizzling slowly up in the glass. Like breaking surface on a dull morning, I thought. I wondered how many shells, or even how many lives, this one bottle of tonic had cost to bring to Malta.

"I didn't think you'd make it back," he repeated, flashing a quick glance at me.  I could see what he was thinking;  I was powerless to cover up:   "He's done too many patrols punch-drunk; he doesn't hear the ashcans any more until they're close -- too close.   Once more -- then it will be too late."

"Look," I snapped suddenly, so suddenly that my subconscious told me how jangled my nerves really were. I meant to tell him about the shelf on the sea-bed, the long weary hell of depth-charging and waiting, but something inside me balked.

"It was a bit tough, but the Ities didn't get too close. Broke some of the fittings. I'll send you a report of the damage," I said offhandedly.

The commander gazed at me steadily. "Trout's seaworthy, then ?"

"Good God, yes!" I exclaimed impatiently. "This gin tastes wonderful."

"Yes, I suppose it does." His probing, assessing gaze irritated me.

"Look sir," I burst out, "I'll give the low-down, charts, position, damage and all the rest of it after I've had a bath. A night's good rest and I'll be ready for sea again."

He got up and stood by the porthole, swilling his drink round and round. Then he faced about suddenly.

"You're not going to sea again."

The shock of his words penetrated only dully. Punch-drunk.

"Not going to sea again?"

"No, Geoffrey."

I laughed grimly: "Battle fatigue -- and all that. No reaction. Shaky hands." I drank down the gin at a gulp.

He burst out laughing. "So that's what is eating you! No, it's not that." He waved a signal slip. "Read it for yourself."

"... to report immediately to the Admiralty in London. Special air transport to be arranged for this officer." I gazed in wonderment at him. "What have I done?"

The. other man laughed again. "Search me. But," he added, "the Admiralty certainly saved me a tricky decision. I have lost one of my best fighting men."

"You might have anyway," I rejoined.

"When do I start?" I asked.

"You're still under my orders, and you're spending a couple of days catching up on sleep. The Admiralty will slap on another gong for that little business you've just done, but they can't give you sleep. I can. Lieutenant-Commander Geoffrey Peace, D.S.O. and two Bars, etc., etc. Cheer up man!  Meet me in the bar later."

I did. After the utter heaven of a bath and a shave and a complete change of clothes, I felt more like a human being again, although the odd feeling of looking at the normal world through the wrong end of a telescope persisted.