A Twist of Sand

He looked at me in his gentle way, and then averted his head sharply. He knew he was looking at a dead man. "But," he said crisply, "remember that radar. You can pick him up at thirty miles. It's the only Achilles heel I know he has."

He turned and walked out.

The Flag Officer (S) had seated himself again. "I'll see you get all the necessary charts, stores and so on. I shall have you flown out to Gibraltar, and from there you will go to 'Freetown and then to the Cape. Your plans are your own after that. You can have a clear run ashore for a month before you go to Gibraltar. Haven't you got some relative who is ill somewhere ?"

"Yes sir," I replied. "My old grandfather had a stroke at his place near Tiverton. I would like to see him before he dies. He hasn't got much of a chance according to the local medico."

"Leave your telephone number, then," he said briskly.

He hesitated for a moment.   "You may be wondering why I did not turn this job over to a hunting group of the North Atlantic boys."

I grinned wryly. "I don't wonder at anything any more, sir."

"In a future war," he said, standing looking out across the pale scene, "the submarine will be licked by the submarine. That's a radical theory which no one -- not even the Prime Minister -- would accept to-day. The hunter becomes the hunted. Stealth will steal up upon stealth, and destroy him by stealth. You are the first of the new hunters," he said without facing me. "You will see more of what I mean when you have time to think over what a nuclear submarine means in terms of future sea wars. You will report back personally to me. There will be no signals if you encounter or sink her, understand? Trout will have a free rein anywhere in any port of the free world. You must come back and report to me -- personally. You have the honour of being the first of the new hunters."

I had heard that he was a man who seldom spoke, and never revealed his mind.

"Or the last of the old hunters," I replied.

He wheeled round and gazed at me, and the Rockall of his eyes softened.

"You believe in your heart that I am sending you to your death, don't you, Peace ?" he asked.

"Yes, sir, I do," I replied levelly. "And there are sixty-five others in Trout who are going to their deaths. Not one of them is afraid to die, but there are no odds in this case. The certainty of death in a submarine is not a pleasant thought."

"If you feel that way, I shall not wish you the submariner's usual au revoir. Good-bye," he said and held out his hand.

I shook it perfunctorily.

When I reached the door, he said softly: "If you are thinking of getting drunk tonight, Lieutenant-Commander, do. There will be an Intelligence man by your side every moment until you sail from Gibraltar. He'll save you from yourself -- or knock you down if you say a word too many."

VI South of North

"luff ! luff ! luff ! Get the sails off her, you sons-of-bitches! By the mark four! God, only four under her and it's coming up from south-west! See that over there, Mister Mate? No, not there -- 326 degrees? Yes? Looks like porridge, but they're breakers. Clan Alpine. Alecto was there the year before too. No, you can't see it ordinarily, and Clan Alpine didn't either. Of course we're going in! No damn you, we had a good sight of the sun at Ponta da Marca and I reckon by now I can smell the Clan Alpine. Three hills. Magnificent bearing. Here -- look at the chart. Don't be damn stupid, this is my own chart; the Germans think they know the coast, but this is my own and not even the Admiralty knows. Captain Williams! Bah, that chartman! I know Captain Williams. Farilhao Point . . . must make southing tonight or else we'll beat against the inshore current all day to-morrow. . . ."

For hours the old man had been rambling. I sat by the bedside of my grandfather, old Captain Peace, who was indeed making his last landfall the hard way. Doctor Chelvers had told me when I arrived from London the previous night that by rights the old captain should have been dead days ago. Coronary thrombosis, not a stroke. But he was fighting it out to the last, although he had made his number to Lloyds.

I sat in the quiet room and listened to the old sailorman's phrases of the sea, in sharp contrast to the lovely Exe Valley, where everything was of that tender young green which one sees nowhere in the world except England, and nowhere lovelier in England than the Exe Valley.

Doctor Chelvers had said that morning that it might only be a matter of hours before old Captain Peace died, or it might be days. I looked at the weather-beaten face against the pillows, and thought of Trout and what was waiting for her. No peaceful sick-bed at the last for me! A sharp rattle from a depth-charge, or more likely the quiet, lethal whisper of a torpedo screw in the hydrophone operator's ears coming nearer . . . nearer . . . nearer. . . .