Anyway, there was nothing I could do about that now. What I had learned was that the Skeleton Coast always laughs last.
I took old Simon's inset chart of Curva dos Dunas and laid it before me on the minute scrap of wood which passed for a table. Mines! I could slip back to Simonstown and load with mines and finish off NP I. It would mean leaving Curva dos Dunas unguarded, but then, either inside or out on a cruise, NP I would sink herself in the channel. Neat and easy, and no danger to Trout. I had almost sold myself on the idea of mines when I remembered the tide-race. No, it would be quite impossible to lay mines in the channel with the race sweeping out seawards. Trout would blow herself up — since they would sweep down on her as she laid them. To lay them from the inside would be equally impossible, as Trout would then be bottled up by her own mines.
The Skeleton Coast had won again.
I glanced at my watch and I took the decision which I had, through fear, kept rigidly at the back of my mind.
I would take Trout in after NP I.
I felt unutterably weary. I shuddered as I glanced at those fearful whorls on the chart, guarded by the remorseless sand-bars. Peering at the welter of soundings and curl annotations, I suddenly found myself amused. Before the final whorled channel into the anchorage in the centre was marked "Galleon Point." And, minutely under it in the faded Indian ink, "spar shows at low water. Five fathoms." A galleon! The thought was too much for my tired mind. I laughed to myself and the laughter, like a balm, soothed my failure and crystallised my new attack plan. It was almost dark now. I had two choices: I could try and take Trout in on the surface and risk discovery and almost certain sinking by NP I — there was no room to manoeuvre — or go in at periscope depth, using Simon's Rock, the three-topped hill and another high hill to the north to steer her by. My heart sank when I looked at the channel. A misjudged order, one mistiming, a swing of the tide-race, and Trout would be jammed against the sand-bars and wolfish breakers. It would be moonlight. I'd take Trout in, even if it killed me. Once in the inner anchorage, NP I would get her delayed salvo of Trout torpedoes, although I' hoped the explosion wouldn't damage Trout as well, the distance was so small. Anyway, that problem could wait. If I could take Trout safely in, it would be the most fantastic piece of navigation I had ever attempted. I would also have to bring her out again. And, I thought, the Skeleton Coast alone knows what the water densities are in that channel, sweeping in from warm, shallow water to the cold South Atlantic outside. The only other alternative had already been lost — to have tried to follow NP I in on hydrophone bearings. I would have had to take Trout so close behind, however, that she must have heard us. Here goes, I thought grimly. I laughed as I tossed down the dividers.
John was looking at me. I hadn't heard him come in, I had been so engrossed in the plan of attack. He had heard that last laugh of mine, and I guess it didn't sound too good to a man who thought his skipper was running off the rails.
We faced one another. John's air of anxious care nettled me. Humour the patient, I thought to myself.
"Well?" I said curtly.
John spread his hands slightly. "Look, Geoffrey… "
He stopped hopelessly when he saw my face. "You've been without sleep for two days and nights. Have some rest. I'll set a course for Simonstown — if you'll tell me where we are."
I took refuge in my command. "There's a new attack plan. I don't want it fluffed, like the other."
John made a gesture of despair. So low that I scarcely could hear, he said: "What were we attacking before?"
His loyalty, his despair, his obvious conclusion that I was no longer in a fit state to command Trout roused me. I laughed. A hard, brittle, nervous laugh. It drew a sharp look from him.
"I'm attacking the most dangerous enemy in the most dangerous waters in the world," I said.
He looked at me disbelievingly. I went towards the entrance and for a moment I thought he was going to stop me. I brushed past into the control room.
"Diving stations," I ordered. "Twenty feet. Up periscope. Group up. Both ahead together. Revolutions for six knots."
I intended to rush through the patch of rough, low-density water, and — I hoped — be shallow enough to avoid the turbulence, and get fixes on old Simon's rock at the southern entrance, and on the two hills before I committed Trout to the channel.
At sixty feet Trout bucked madly again, but at twenty feet all was quiet.
"Up periscope."
There was Simon's Rock, still white tipped in the near dark. I had a clear view of the three-topped hill bearing 105 degrees and the northern mountain, almost masked now against its dun background, on seventy degrees.
"Course one-oh-oh," I said, committing her to the entrance. It was about three-quarters of a mile to the first big swing in the channel; it then turned back almost parallel to the entrance.
Trout glided towards Curva dos Dunas.
I raised the periscope higher and was appalled at what I saw. Against the dun backdrop of the dunes, touched now with the last light of day, a gale creamed in from the south-west, breaking berserkly on the bars at the entrance, bared now like fangs. I was steady on my bearings however, and old Simon's chart was a marvel. All round creamed broken water.
The sweat trickled down my neck.
"Hydrophone operator and asdic report confused noises to port, starboard and ahead, sir," John reported, his face a mask of formality.
"Switch the bloody things off," I snapped.
"Aye, aye, sir."
"Course one-oh-five degrees," I ordered. The helmsman made a minute adjustment. Beyond the seething water straight ahead I could see the strange three-topped hill. I only had to steer for that until the high hill to the north bore sixty degrees, when I would make my first great change of course as the channel turned back on itself.
Trout crept slowly towards the bearing. I swivelled the periscope round — Simon's Rock had been lost in the whiteness on the starboard quarter. One of my lifelines was gone. I must have enough light to keep the high northern hill and the three-topped hill in view just till the moon rose.
The bearing neared.
Here it was.
"Course three-two-oh," I said without expression.
John jumped like a scalded cat.
"Three-two — oh." Very slowly: "Aye, aye, sir."
"Helmsman, course three-two-oh."
Trout swung round. I waited without breathing for the tell-tale bump which meant the end. It did not come.
The control room was tense. By the unknown grapevine the buzz had gone around the boat and most of the men, of their own accord, had taken up action stations.
The sweat poured off me. Up above, the maelstrom of white water was more terrifying than ever. Nowhere could I see unbroken sea. It was lashed to foam, aided by the strong south-westerly gale. I was getting to know my Skeleton Coast. I was also getting to know what courage it had taken the old sailor to sail a ship in there, and take soundings. Trout edged back almost the way she had come in the new channel. The light was dying on the three-topped hill, and its outlines were blurred. God, for that moon which would silhouette it for me, I prayed.
She came on to the bearing for the next wide, shallow turn to the north; the channel then veered almost due east, and again towards the south and west for the final entry into the anchorage.
The hill was more blurred and my heart sank as I decided to change course.
"Steer three-oh," I said. The rank sweat coursed down inside my clothes.
"Three-oh, aye, aye, sir," said John. But his tone reflected the growing anxiety of every man on board as Trout swung and veered down the channel.
"Sir…" he came forward anxiously.
I could spare him this moment. And, by God, I thought, I'll teach him to think I'm crazy.
I stood back from the eyepieces, wiping the sweat on a stinking towel. I gestured to him to look.
He bent down. Every eye was upon him. At last, I thought, they're saying Jimmy the One is getting a look
in and, if the skipper's crazy, at least he'll get us out of this mess — whatever it is.
I watched his face. I saw the white bracket form round his mouth as he saw the inferno of breaking water. The crew saw it too. Under his tan, his face went deadly pale. He slowly turned the periscope through a full circle, and then back again. I touched him on the shoulder. He pulled back, formal, but his face and lips were bloodless. The effect was not lost on the watching men. It was the face of a man, inwardly terror-struck, who was doing everything in his power to keep his face from showing it.
"Thank you, sir," he said.
I wiped the streaming rubber eyepieces.
I changed the course slightly again, praying for the moon to rise behind the three-topped hill. I would have to wait for that, and the present gentle curve of the channel seemed as easy as any. I reduced speed to bare steerage way. Trout, at only twenty feet, seemed to be making good progress; the tide rip must be deep underneath, I puzzled. Farther on I would call the crew to action stations. There was about another four miles to go to the anchorage after that.
"Dead slow ahead," I ordered. Hoping for the moon, I could pass safely through this section — with luck. It was only a matter of five minutes. Five minutes, and I would be opposite Galleon Point. The tide was high, so I would not see the spar marked on the chart.
Then Trout struck.
As if an unseen hand had given her a push, she yawed to port and stuck firm. There was no warning, and not much concussion. Her head simply swung and stuck.
I rapped out a rapid command. The engines stopped and there Trout lodged, slightly canted, but not bumping. I swung the periscope round. She didn't seem to be right in among the breakers. Could this be some new obstruction since the days when old Simon had mapped it?
"Half astern," I ordered. If she came off, she wouldn't slide too far backwards. The engines woke up. Trout remained stuck.
"Full astern!"
No result.
John had checked and apparently there was no damage. Trout didn't seem in grave danger, but her stern now swung inwards with the current. I took the chart between sweat-soaked fingers and saw that Trout must be hard aground off Galleon Point. What had pushed her sideways? There was nothing on the chart. I swung the periscope round and studied the broken water to the south. Then I saw. There was a slight clear patch running directly into the main channel. It was a kind of overflow channel through which the water sluiced when the tide was nearly high, like now, and invisible at low water. The situation was serious, but by no means hopeless. I could blow the tanks and probably shake her loose, but that might mean giving away my position. But in this near-dark? A submarine's silhouette is small at the best of times, and it was not likely that she would be spotted if she broke surface only for a moment….
"Blow the main tanks," I ordered.
Trout strained as she became buoyant. Strained, held — and tore free — free! She leaped to the surface.
"Twenty feet," I ordered.
She dived like a mad thing. As the words left my lips — I knew that her hydroplanes were damaged.
"Surface."
"Aye, aye, sir."
Trout came up raggedly, very raggedly.
"Try and keep her awash if you can," I said to John. His clipped, curt commands showed that he knew what danger Trout was in — he had looked through the periscope.
There was only one thing now — to take Trout in on the surface and hope that she wouldn't be spotted before I could deal a lethal blow. There was also the moon. A sharp lookout aboard NP I and we were doomed. On the other hand, a submarine's conning-tower, with the rest of her almost awash, is not easy to see — unless a sliver of moonlight reflecting off the wet casing gave us away.
I reached for an old reefer jacket.
"I'll con her from up aloft," I said. "No look-outs.'
Then the thought struck me.
With one foot poised on the steel rung, I remembered my explicit orders. "You will destroy… "
"Fuse the demolition charges to blow her up," I said.
Davis at the hydroplanes blanched. I turned to John and looked him in the eyes.
"If you fail to receive word from me within five-minute intervals, no one is to venture up aloft. Is that clear? You will blow the demolition charges."
"Escape drill for the crew, sir?"
I thought of that pitiless waste of waters. They would be better off in one short, sharp explosion than trying to battle it out against the inexorable sea.
"No escape drill," I replied. "You will blow the charges. That is all."
He looked at me bleakly. I knew he would do it.
"Aye, aye, sir."
The salt spray smarted on my lips up aloft. Curva dos Dunas might have looked grim through the periscope, but from up here, with a view all round of the terrifying breakers, it was truly horrifying. Trout seemed stuck in the middle of a welter of creaming white water, with the salt spray and spindrift tearing up from the south-west across her, half-submerged. In fact, I could scarcely see the full length of the casing, or distinguish where it started and ended. It would need a very keen pair of eyes to pick us up from NP I in that driving maelstrom. Radar — but that was her Achilles heel. I felt a little easier. Then, through the broken, spume-laden air on the landward side, my two mountains, like things primitive when the world was young, reared their dun crowns as the moon rose behind them, pale and strange in the queer refracted light which the salt-laden air of the sea, meeting the mica particles of the desert, had contrived. The moon itself looked distorted, sick. The feeling of being utterly alone, dominated by the wild elements of sea and desert, wiped the fear of NP I from my heart. It was not NP I who was the first enemy, but the Skeleton Coast. Alone, I shivered.
"Steer one-one-oh," I ordered down the voice-pipe. Trout headed down the channel. There was almost nothing to distinguish it from the rest of the white water. The spume tore across the slowly-moving submarine.
The two mountains gave me a new bearing, and I altered course sharply to the southward, the land being now close by on my left. I could even see, in the strange light, the scrub on the corrugated sandhills above the rocky beach. Trout had not suffered much — for surface running at any rate — but I reckoned, looking at old Simon's chart, that we must have struck at Galleon Point. She may have even fouled some old wreckage there.
My eyes were riveted to the south-west, where I knew NP I must lie in the inner anchorage. The driving, salt-laden gale made it impossible to see any distance. About a mile and a half to go…
"Action stations," I ordered. "Bring all tubes to the ready. Settings for four and six feet. Gun crew at the ready. When I give the word, I want them to fire on a bearing I will give them immediately before. Is that clear?"
"Aye, aye, sir," came John's disembodied response.
I altered course again, due south now. The channel made one last swing before the anchorage. I felt my heart racing, for now it was all or nothing. I couldn't dive and I felt sure that in a gun-fight Trout would be outclassed.
Then I saw the long causeway leading ashore.
For a moment I couldn't believe my eyes. There it was, almost awash in the tide, but a dead straight line between the anchorage and the shore! There was nothing on my chart. Had these thorough Germans built themselves a concrete causeway to link themselves with that inhospitable shore, a back door to the funk-hole?
I looked closer and saw it was hard-packed, iron-hard shingle, a natural causeway as perfect as anyone could wish. But there was no time to admire. We were almost there.
"Course three-two-oh," I ordered.
Trout swung through the last great whorl and I noticed how much calmer and oilier the water was. I still felt reasonably safe from discovery.
The anchorage!
There was NP I on the far side, wraith-like, beautiful.
She was big — every bit of 3,000 tons, I guessed quickly. She was painted white — perfect camouflage in the breaking waters — which gave a fairy
aspect to her lovely clean lines and the wing-like, streamlined conning-tower.
"All tubes ready?" I asked.
"All tubes ready, sir. Settings for four and six feet."
"Course one-nine-oh," I said.
NP I was a sitting duck. I didn't need all the elaborate paraphernalia which are vital to attack: all I had to do was point Trout at NP I and fire my salvo. The danger really lay in damage to Trout herself at that short range. She'd have to risk that.
"Stand by," I said. "Target bearing dead ahead."
Trout pointed her deadly snout across the salt-impregnated anchorage. To my amazement, I saw that NP I had a small light rigged and there was a group of men doing something to the casing — and I thought I saw more men on a strip of sand-bar beyond.
Then Trout gave her fateful lurch.
I do not know whether it was one of those hellish crosscurrents, or a sudden change in density of the water, but she lurched. I grabbed to steady myself. My grasping ringers clung, caught and tugged as I struggled for balance.
I fired Trout's recognition flare.
The flare soared across the anchorage, lighting everything, drowning the moon. German faces whipped round on NP I and stared, first at the flare, and then in horror at the clear outline of Trout at the entrance. I stood speechless, aghast. By a million-to-one chance I had given away all chance of concealment, and surprise. It wasn't going to be a clean kill now.
The flare arched over and plunged down, burning brightly. At growing speed it plummeted towards the surface of the anchorage. It struck.
The sea exploded in flame.
How long — or how short — it took I shall never be able to. calculate. My mouth was on its way to the voice-pipe to send the torpedoes on their deadly way when the sea burst into flame all round NP I. She looked beautiful before the first savage flames soiled her. The stupid clots, I thought, they've been discharging oil and petrol: they felt so safe in their funk-hole. I saw figures running, and then the flames shot up high over her bridge.
A Twist of Sand Page 13