A Twist of Sand

With the air-conditioning machinery switched off -- for what it was worth -- the sweat started to trickle down the back of my neck. John's face glistened in the high humidity. The clock hand moved round. Silence. A great silence, only broken by the occasional soft thump as Trout nuzzled the unfriendly sand under her. An hour passed. I was almost startled to see one of the crew move silently to request permission to visit the heads -- he had removed his shoes and socks and was padding about barefooted. In the engine-room men had stripped off their shirts, and the sweat ran in runnels from their bare, browned torsos -- legacy of the cruising days in the sun. Let them sweat it out, I thought unfeelingly.

Two hours. Three hours. We stood to action stations without exchanging a word. The heat was becoming very oppressive. No one had eaten anything since the call to action stations. I called John and gave him instructions to have bullybeef sandwiches served all round.

"Tell the cook," I added, "that if he so much as drops a knife, he'll stop right away and no one will get a morsel."

"Aye, aye, sir," John said formally.

The sandwiches provided a welcome break in the long vigil. It was now past noon. The smell of humans, mixed with oil, so characteristic of submarines, hung heavy in the staling air. My own sweat stank rank; it stank of fear. You can smell a frightened crew, but this one wasn't. But their commanding officer was -- terribly, frightfully afraid.

As the afternoon wore on, the fears which had gone underground since I had actually located Curva dos Dunas raised their heads, each one with two more heads attached to the original one. Suppose I had smelled out NP I's lair -- was there any guarantee that she would return soon, even reasonably soon? With her apparently unlimited cruising range, she might be away weeks. I swore to myself that if I had to wait a week, or even two, I would do so. I had waited before. The French saying came to my mind: "Patience is bitter, but its fruits are sweet." In the balance of my doubts, I had the one great concrete fact: I had found a hide-out capable of being used by a marauding submarine which no one knew about. That it was navigable, I had only old Simon's charts to rely on, but they had proved themselves accurate enough. And there had been the strange noises which Trout had followed -- I was still convinced, almost to her doom.

We waited.

Another hour ticked ponderously by. John stood like a statue, and the others might have been hypnotised into frozen flesh, except that they were sweating more heavily now. Once I caught a fleeting exchange of glances between the sub at the "fruit machine "and the navigator. They still thought I was crazy, maybe even crazier after a silent action stations vigil of more than six hours. Up above the sun must be starting to sag towards St. Helena. For hours I studied the small inset chart of Curva dos Dunas, until I think I knew every fathom mark, every obstruction, every sandbar. I glanced at the clock. After five! Weary with the long inactivity, I decided to speak to Bissett myself. After hours at the hydrophones, even his sensitive ears -- and they were the keenest in the boat -- would be deadening. I edged into his cubicle. My rubber-soled shoes made no noise. Elton was lounging next to Bissett.

I caught his whispered words before he saw me.

". . . crackers. Up the creek. Reckon Jimmy the One thinks so too. You've been listening for eight hours -- for what? A farting whale. If that isn't plumb crackers . . ."

"Elton," I said softly, and he froze. He turned swiftly and faced me. There was a half sardonic grin on his face which triggered off the accumulated tension of hours of nerve strain within me.

He opened his mouth, but he never said what he intended to. I hit him across the side of the neck, a savage blow meant for a street fight, a muscle-ripping, cruel lunge with the edge of my forearm. He sagged like a rag doll and sat down with a heavy thump, his senseless eyes rolling back with fear.

Bissett looked aghast and did the sensible thing by concentrating on his job. I felt sick, and deeply ashamed of myself. The savagery of my pent-up feelings had mute witness in the sorry picture half propped against the bulkhead. I felt his pulse. Well, I hadn't killed him.

Suddenly a ripple ran through Bissett, like a pointer sighting his game.

"Sir! sir!" he whispered urgently.

"What is it, man?" I rapped out.

He didn't hear me.  His whole being was listening.

"Confused noises bearing red one-five," he said slowly. "Getting stronger."

I could barely utter the words.  "Is it the same. . . .?"

He nodded.

He looked up and smiled.

"Coming this way all right, sir. Lot of ground echoes, but quite clear. Same as last night."

I snatched an earpiece and listened. Yes, there it was, the same deadly thump, like a man dragging a leg.

I knew all I wanted to know.

I shot through to the control room.

"Continuous readings," I snapped as I left him.