A Twist of Sand

"You're taking that bloody great thing out of here just as soon as I can get her filled up. Two hours, maybe."

The Australian turned away truculently. "Bugger you," he said.

Blacklock didn't argue. "See here," he said evenly. "If you are not fit, or your crew is not fit, I'll put another crew aboard, but that Lancaster is going to be on its way back to Gibraltar before daylight. Out of the way of the Jerry bases on Sicily and the mainland. Make up your mind."

The Australian faced about, and in the stronger light I could see the lines of fatigue round his mouth. But he changed his tune in the face of Blacklock's stiff line.

"What's the hurry?" he demanded. "Who's this bastard we've got to get back without so much as an hour's rest? Churchill's younger brother? Why can't the bomber stay here for tomorrow at least ?"

Blacklock was fast losing patience. "First, because I say so. Second, because that plane will be bombed to pieces in the first raid tomorrow morning. Third, I don't want more of a mess made of my runways than necessary. Fourth, because this is the man you're taking back. Lieutenant-Commander Geoffrey Peace. ' Utmost priority,' that's why they sent you in the first place."

The Australian looked round with his eyes narrowed with weariness. "OK." he said. "Fill her up. Call me when it's done. She's OK. otherwise. I suppose we have time for a cup of coffee?" Then his manner changed. "Don't let those bastards of a ground crew into the plane before we get stuff out of her."

"What stuff?" asked Blacklock suspiciously.

"There are three crates of whisky and three of gin in the bomb-bay," he grinned. "And about the same number of tinned food. I figured you miserable bastards would need something to cheer you up." 'Utmost priority' he mimicked.

Blacklock slapped him on the shoulder. "Sorry about this, Aussie. We could have had a party."

"Ah, well," sighed the Australian.

Two and a half-hours later the big bomber stood quivering at the end of the runway, brakes hard on with the great Rolls-Royce engines roaring defiantly. Spurts of blue flame flickered over the cowlings as the Australian revved them up to almost full boost against the brakes. Then the flarepath came on momentarily, the brakes were released, and we catapulted forward. Had it not been for my strap, I would have been thrown from the metal-backed seat on to the mattresses the crew had slept on on the floor. The great machine bucked and roared as the pilot fought to get her off I he tiny runway. The tail came up but it seemed an eternity. Then it slowly lifted and with the Rolls-Royce engines bellowing we lifted clear and swept out to sea. Even as I looked back, the flare path went out, and we were alone over the sea for all the long flight back to England.

V Suicide -- by Submarine

"The third man is dead,"  said the  Flag Officer  (S)., "You'll take his place.   The list is short.   The others are beyond telling the Germans."

An old submariner himself, the Flag Officer (S) did not waste his words -- or his time. The Admiralty looked bleak and cold in the late London spring; chill it seemed to me after being used to the friendly bite of the Mediterranean sun. Bleaker still looked those eyes over the top of the desk. They reminded me somehow of Rockall, the lonely isle in the Atlantic -- they only changed their shade of greyness, sometime* stormy, sometimes still, but always grey and bleak with the chill of the near Arctic.

I did not reply. The sudden transition by air from one place to another has always left me feeling as if a part of me had been left behind; it requires time to catch up again.

"Are you tired, Peace?" the level voice snapped. Dear God!  Was I tired of people telling me I was tired! First at Malta, where I had been fussed over -- sleep and rest. And now the Flag Officer (S) himself.   Something inside me tightened.

"Of course I'm tired," I replied savagely.   "I sank a battleship and had God knows how many depth-charges dropped on me for God knows how many hours. I come straight off patrol and I fly for God knows how many hours in a cold uncomfortable plane with everyone swaddling me in cottonwool. I am tired, but I can be a damn sight tireder. If you had hidden behind a shelf of sand for nine hours. . . ."

The hard look which struck terror into the hearts of so many, and my own now when I realised the folly of such an outburst, changed to one of surprise and the Arctic eyes became slightly less grey.

"What's that?" he whipped out. "What's this about a shelf of sand ? There's nothing in the report."

"They probably didn't consider it worthwhile burdening the air with so much detail," I replied. "It was this way, sir ..." I told him about Trout's long ordeal and how I had chosen the undulation on the sea-bed as my protection. I must admit I made it longer than I normally would have done, but while I kept talking I felt he might overlook my nervous outburst.