A Twist of Sand

"Utmost priority!" The Royal Air Force officer, suitably moustached, threw back his head and roared with laughter. "Christ!" He turned angrily to me. "What do any of these bloody brass hats know about utmost priority? Have you seen the airfield ? As full of craters as a whore's face! And I have to give you top priority to fly out of here! I couldn't fly out a flippin' boy's kite, let alone a naval officer." He snorted and drained his glass.

"Do you know what's going on here ?" he went on. '' We're so bombed to hell that the Ities and Jerries only need to really come over in force and we've had it. Why, one parachute regiment would write off the airfield."

He signalled frantically for more beer.

' You naval types just don't know what's going on around here. A few bombs at sea, but you can always dodge them. And then -- home with top priority -- out of Malta! Hell!"

The C.O. leaned across to him and I saw the flicker in his eyes. He said quietly: "You're talking to the man who sank the Littorio battleship. Confirmed by air reconnaissance. Your crew rather jumped the gun with that emblem on the conning-tower."

"My God!" he roared. "So you're the ... who sank that load of old iron! Torpedoes right up her arse!" He thumped me on the back and the others in the bar turned and grinned at the little comedy being enacted. ". . . me! And I start a penny lecture about bombs! Barman! Line 'em up for the Admiral!"

At any other time I might have enjoyed his discomfiture and friendly amends, but tonight I wished him as deep down as my victim. Above all, I was aware of my curious sense of separation from the events going on, almost as if I had been a spectator to my own half-tentative efforts to reciprocate. I'd better get drunk, I thought, and when I wake up with a monumental hangover I'll really feel I've done something to justify my double vision.

We drank to my success.

"I'll get you out of here top priority even if I have to fly the bloody thing myself," roared the R.A.F. man. I saw a rating standing nervously in the door and, more nervously still, he made his way through the officers to our group.

"Signal, sir."'

"What the hell" burst out the C.O. "Can't a man have a drink in peace --  ' His voice tailed off as he saw the look on the man's face. He jabbed his finger more nervously than ever at the superscription on the signal --  "most secret."

The C.O. ripped it open and his right eyebrow rose a little. It was the only form of surprise he ever allowed himself. Otherwise his face, if not his eyes, remained inscrutable.

"Here, Blacklock, this concerns you too."

The R.A.F. man glanced at the signal form. He gave a long whistle. His eyes riveted on me and he made a little sideways gesture of the shoulder to the C.O.

"He might as well know about it, seeing it concerns him most of all."

Blacklock threw down the signal in front of me. "Admiralty to Flag Officer (S) Malta. Lancaster bomber S for Sugar leaving Maddocksford 0400 G.M.T. for Malta to transport Lieutenant-Commander Geoffrey Peace to London. Utmost priority. The expeditious return of this officer to London must be treated as overriding consideration. ..."

Blacklock was a sound enough man to keep his mouth shut in the bar, but I could see he was thunderstruck.

"Have to make arrangements to get that damn great plane in here without wrecking itself in the bomb-holes. More joy for the pick-and-shovel brigade." He. looked at me with respect.

"You must be quite a boy in your own way," he said. Fancy sending a special plane out to fetch you. Personal service in war-time ----- me!"

The C.O. looked thoughtful. "When do you think the Lancaster will arrive ?"

Blacklock laughed. "He'll have time for a night's sleep. I'll give you the E.T.A when Gib. signals it. I don't know which will be worse, trying to bring her in at night, or during the day when the Jerries are sure to pick her up. We could get her away better at night, though," he mused, "but, Christ! can I get her off that piddling little runway? I hope they have the good sense to fill her up at Gib." He turned to me with a grin. "You'd remember it all your life if Malta fell because we used up all our petrol to fly out one of the Admiralty's favourite torpedo-boys."

Blacklock excused himself and shot off, with characteristic energy, to cope with the physical problem of handling the big machine. The C.O. was silent for a long time.

"Why do they want me in London?" I asked. After all, the Admiralty doesn't send a special plane for a submarine officer just because he sinks a battleship. Other submariners had done every bit as well and there were other men just as able, if not more so, than myself. My tired brain, a little muzzy now with the gin, simply balked at the mental jump and would not go over it.

So I said to the C.O.: "Tell me if you can, why should the Admiralty want me in such a hurry? They don't just want to pat me on the back for being a good boy."