A Twist of Sand

"Geoffrey, I don't know any more than you do. I could think of some reasons, but they're obscure and I'm sure they don't fit. But you can take it from me, if the Admiralty can take the trouble to arrange and send out a bomber --  and if the R.A.F. is willing to let it go at this particular juncture of the war -- then you're a damn important personage, make no mistake. Just think of the paper work alone to get the R.A.F. to lend one of its precious bombers to the Navy! It looks like a decision which couldn't have been made except at the very highest level -- maybe even the chiefs of staff. I could imagine the hell any service head would kick up at being told to send one of his fighting units for the purpose of picking up just one man. You're in cottonwool from now on, Geoffrey. No risks. No courageous wanderings when there's a raid on. You'll take orders from me to keep yourself as safe as a new-born prince."

I grimaced: "Yesterday I was simply a submarine commander who felt he'd done a job of work. I hadn't had a bath for three weeks. Now I feel unclean with all this limelight focused on me. I felt better on the bridge of the Trout. In the light of all this," I burst out, "it's a pity the Ities didn't get Trout -- to hell with ' utmost priority! '

The C.O. said harshly: "You can keep that sort of maudlin talk for somewhere else. Those boys of yours are a damn fine bunch, and I wouldn't like to think of them at the bottom of the sea just because you're facing something you don't know." He stood up and eyed me unrelentingly. "You'd better get a good night's rest. We'll try and get you out of here sometime to-morrow if the raids are not too heavy."

I suppose that at that time there were fewer drearier places than the huts grouped round Malta's much-bombed airfield. For the hundredth time I changed my position on the scuffed, hard chair and pulled up my greatcoat collar, not only to keep out the chill, but the unrelieved glare of the unshaded lights. The place looked stark, kicked about; indeed it was. It was no fitting portal of glory for the men who, day after day, set their faces against the impossible odds of the great bombing squadrons which sought to destroy not only the airfield, but Malta itself. Blacklock had been hovering around, but his main concern was chivvying the weary workers filling in bomb craters from the last raid of the day, and trying to get a few precious extra yards of runway to help the heavy Lancaster bomber off the field. I could see he was inwardly dubious. Gibraltar had given us a short signal about five hours ago that the plane had left there; we weren't likely to have any more news until she arrived after the long 1,000-mile haul from the Rock.

The pulsing of heavy engines cut the thick silence of the early hours.

Blacklock joined me. "I hope to God they don't pile that monster up on my runways," he said. "It's bad enough having to give them our precious petrol, but it would be hell if they chewed up what's left of the airfield. Besides," he added, "after these top priority signals, I've got to swaddle you in cottonwool. If they don't get that bloody great thing off the deck again, I feel they'll court martial me. You'll probably be beyond the powers of court martial if she doesn't lift." He grinned, but he was nervous.

The flarepath came on.

"All in your honour," said Blacklock. "I wouldn't dare unless it were vital. As it is, it might bring the Stukas in post-haste." He glanced anxiously round, a man naked In his enemies.

The cumbersome shape teetered down on the extremity of the runway. It ran on and on. I thought it would never stop. Blacklock drew the breath between his teeth. The giant slowed, creaked, and turned towards the apron, the propellers cutting arcs of pale light.

"Bloody fine landing!" exclaimed Blacklock. "Bloody fine! Fine being the operative word. They've sent you a good pilot, laddie, if that landing means anything. Get those lights out," he shouted to someone in the darkness above in the control tower.

Before the great bomber had stopped rolling the airfield in total darkness.  Blacklock and I went forward while he shone his torch  on the crew's entrance.    Four men emerged, walking with that stiff, uneasy gait a man has after a long flight.

Then fifth pair of legs emerged and an Australian voice "Malta he jewel of the sterling area!    Holiday in suns  Malta!   See Malta and the worst bloody airfield I've ever seen! Push it over the Cliff!"

"That's what the jerries are trying to do. I Blacklock." He turned to the ground crew. "Get her fuelled up. Anything else needed?"

The Australian looked at him in astonishment.

"What do you mean fuel her up? I'm getting fuelled up myself before I take this cow back. I want a bath and a night's rest." With heavy sarcasm he wheeled on Blacklock. "We've been flying chum, remember? Fifteen hundred miles to Gibraltar way out to sea, and another thousand here.  See?"

I admired Blacklock then, and saw what had got him to the top.