Chapter V (2)

‘What awful rot; you’d think they’d have plenty of Destroyers knocking about doing nothing, or at the worst they might let us go up by ourselves.’

‘And get sunk by our own patrols on the first night up. No thank you, George, not for mine this journey. You as a young and able officer ought to be jolly pleased to think you can have another whole three days among this bevy of beauty. You don’t make the most of your chances.’

‘This is such a dull hole, though,’ put in Boyd; ‘you can’t get much in the way of amusements in the evening. What on earth can we do to shake things?’

‘Now wait, I have an idea. I feel it maturing,’ said Raymond, holding his hand to his brow. ‘Don’t speak for a moment, it’s coming. Ah-h-h, I have it! We’ll give a dance, a Submarine dance here in the hotel; the drawing-room will be just the place, and we’ll invite all the old fogies who’re staying here, and a few choice spirits of our own for leavening. It’ll be all right, the manager and I are old pals, and I’ve done it before. I’ll try and fix it for to-morrow night. It begins with men only, and we give them a practice attack with pillows for torpedoes and Boyd for the periscope. That comes off in my room, by the way. Then we adjourn to the drawing-room, and the damsels troop in, and we get the show going. Little Miss Bored Stiff, or whatever her name is, will be only too pleased to bang on the piano, I feel sure. What do you think of it?’

‘Not so dusty. What about clothes, though?’

‘Just monkey jackets and bow ties and white kid gloves. Oh, and you can’t disgrace me by appearing in those disreputable old pumps, so you’ll have to trot out and buy new ones. What about you, Seagrave?’

‘I was just thinking. I don’t seem to remember having a decent suit to my name, but I’ll do my best.’

After dinner the manager was approached and the subject gently broached to him. It took an effort, but after a little while he proved amenable, and agreed to provide decorations and refreshments in return for the addition of certain items on the officers’ extra bills. Miss Bored Stiff, after a deal of gushing, agreed to do her share, and the invitations were sent out the next morning.

‘The officers of H.M. Submarine “123” request the pleasure of the company of ---- at a Submarine dance to-night in the drawing-room at 9.0. p.m.’

And so the invitations were accepted--all, that is, except two, and they were two very old people, and the preparations were duly made, and 8.30 p.m. saw a crowd of fifteen young gentlemen in Sam Browne belts collected in Raymond’s room, drinking their liqueurs and smoking their cigars with the air of war-worn warriors. There was a certain amount of noise in the room as well, in fact it filled up most of the odd spaces where the aforesaid young gentlemen were not sitting, but matters were moving, and a ‘submarine attack’ was developing.

Boyd was dangling in mid-air from the end of a line thrown round a stout hat-peg and made fast to the bed rail (he had to be the periscope after all), and an arrangement of chairs and whatnots represented the diving rudder wheels and other control-room etceteras. A little way off Seagrave stood by an arm-chair, to whose back was fixed an ingenious arrangement, whose principal ingredients were pillows and a length of rubber tubing. The spectators sat where they could, and prepared to learn the methods of attack as demonstrated by a submarine expert.

At an order from Raymond, a young gentleman with a single star upon his cuff went through the operation of starting the motors, mimicking the gestures of the L.T.O. working the switches at the motor-board. The captain then gazed fixedly between Boyd’s dangling boots and gave the order, ‘take her down.’

Everybody groaned, hissed, and hooted, while a youth in shirt sleeves splashed water in a basin to represent the wash of the sea over the conning-tower. Two others manipulated the diving wheel chairs, and the hands on the face of a broken clock were gravely moved on in imitation of the depth-gauge.

‘A thousand feet,’ said Raymond. ‘Hold her at that, idiot. Oh, hell, she’s leaking.’ This as the basin worker upset half his water. ‘Blow 40 and 50. Shake it up now. That’s better. Oh, down, periscope,’ and Boyd was lowered to the floor gasping.

‘Right now, up to thirty feet. Work that depth-gauge, ass. Up periscope. Heave him up, never mind if he kicks. Ha! Enemy bearing two points on the starboard bow. Steady that helm, idiot. Steady, I say. That’s right. Eighteen feet. Flood the tubes.’

‘Flood the tubes,’ cried Seagrave, getting busy with his arm-chair. ‘Come on now. Bear a hand there. Tubes flooded, sir, and firing-tanks charged. Swing the bow-cap.’ (Another youth shot through air.) ‘That’s the style. Now we’re doing something. All ready, sir.’

‘Steady the helm. Down periscope. Thirty feet,’ continued Raymond. ‘Easy now, eighteen feet again. Up periscope. Steady that helm now. Carefully does it. Ahhhh. Don’t kick us, Boyd. Stand by.’

‘Stand by, sir.’

‘Easy now. Ready to take her down. Deflections 400. Look out there; look out again and we bump her. Now once more and ... Fire!’ and a pillow shot out of the catapult device like a feathery cannon ball and bowled over a rather dignified if youthful captain amid howls of delight.

‘Eighty feet,’ shouted Raymond; ‘take her down, men, quick now. Oh, hell! we’re rammed,’ and the whole room rose and fell on itself in a kicking and struggling mass.

‘Here, I say you fellows,’ cried the irate army captain. ‘This is a bit thick. I’ve got decent clothes on. You are a lot of ... of Submarine Toughs.’

He was dragged to his feet and dried and brushed (there had been a good deal of water floating about, ‘to make it more realistic,’ as Seagrave put it), and his ruffled feelings were restored with whisky. Then the party disappeared to tidy itself for the dance, and ten minutes later the seekers after submarine knowledge trickled down to the drawing-room where the ‘Submarine Toughs’ were waiting to receive the ladies, looking very angelic and innocent in spite of the recent _mêlée_.

The ladies arrived, and the dance opened with a waltz banged out of the patient if wheezy old hotel piano by the gushing Miss Bored Stiff, and ten couples took the floor with great gusto, while the manager alternately held up his hands in horror and beamed benevolently on the revels. The waltz was followed by a set of lancers, and the game got really going. Supper was much in evidence, and Sam Browne belts and dark blue and gold dashed about with ices and claret cup, and picked up fans and wrote things on programmes and generally did the gallant.

And so, Miss Bored Stiff played, and the girls giggled, and the mothers beamed, and even a few of the fathers, terrifying people, were sufficiently melted to accept a drink, and the evening wore on and everybody enjoyed themselves. The young gentleman in khaki, with the thin gold stripe on his sleeve, danced with the girl in the red sash four times, and the Army Captain acted as steward till he lost his rosette, more by design than accident, and hurled himself into the two-step like a three-year-old. Then the mothers gathered their bairns about them, and ‘good-nights’ were exchanged, and the fathers remained and gave expert opinions about the war, and listened with deference to the expert opinions of others who two years before they would have considered babes-in-arms, and every one went happily to bed.

But no one knew of the revels held in the Petty Officers’ Mess that night to which the Sergeants of the local defence force and their ‘good ladies’ had been invited, or of how the coxswain and the T.I. danced attendance on the Master Gunner’s daughter, or how Hoskins so far forgot his dignity as to perform a step dance much to the edification of the guests and the admiration of the entire engine-room staff.

These things are secret, and the veil is never lifted ... in public, for the next day work had to be carried out in the Service manner, and every one was his usual staid and former self.

And that’s another of the unwritten rules that pertain to the Laws of the Navy.

* * * * *

And then the final spasm when two days later the escort Destroyer swung out of the harbour and ‘123’ followed her, laden with kit and belongings and spare parts, and containers, and a host of minor matters purchased for less fortunate comrades in the _Parentis_. Out through the dock entrance and past the harbour heads, and Darlton and that dockyard and the Royal Hotel were left behind, perhaps for good and ever. And the Destroyer zig-zagged and the Submarine puffed behind and was examined by trawlers and patrol-boats, and anchored for the night, and the following day arrived off the base once more and the familiar scenes of work and the old routine. As they stopped alongside the _Parentis_ in the late afternoon they were met by the ward room _en masse_ and hurried off to gin and bitters to celebrate their arrival. The parcels were distributed and blessings given and curses hurled over the contents, while Raymond and the skippers talked ‘shop’ over the alterations and work of the re-fit. But there was something missing, and it came out later after dinner when the juniors had cleared off and the seniors sat round in solemn conclave.

‘Yes,’ said Carruthers, staring into the empty grate. ‘About two weeks ago it was. Much the same show as Shelldon’s, I expect. Just went out and didn’t come back. Hard luck, but he wasn’t married. A lot of his men were, though. And old Blake was always so cheery, too.’...

The ward room nodded and lapsed into silence. Somebody coughed and picked up a magazine. Then six bells struck and the _Parentis_ went to bed.

ACTION

I saw a Line of Battleship a-followed by a prize,
’Oose capture wur a matter easy done;
The Gunners ’eld their fire till they saw each other’s eyes,
And raked her fore and aft with every gun.
Eh! it couldn’t ’ave been every gun as did it?
I’m speaking of a ’undred year ago;
An’ if we didn’t rake ’er, ’ow in ’Eavens _did_ we take ’er,
For we adn’t got torpedoes down below?

I saw a Fleet of ironclads a-shelling of a town,
Which let us ’ave it lively from a fort,
Till a little British ‘lay-me-true’ ran in and did ’em brown,
While most of us lay off and watched the sport.
Eh! it couldn’t ’ave been just one ship as did it?
I’m speaking now of forty year ago;
We’d iron on our uppers and steam and patent scuppers,
Though nowadays you might a’called it slow.

I ’ear there’s been an action, for the Germans come at last,
With submarines and aereyplanes an’ all;
But when our Battle Squadron come they run so ruddy fast
We ’adn’t time to open up the ball.
And yet I can’t make out the way they do it,
I’m speaking now o’ thirteen months ago,
They come out for to beat us, but when the beggars meet us,
They scuttle back before they’ve struck a blow.

But, Grandpa, don’t forget, you’ aven’t _seen_ the British Fleet,
Nor been aboard a Dreadnought in your life,
And a modern Battle Squadron is a nasty thing to meet,
And a Cruiser ’as a fore-foot like a knife.
So, can’t you even guess the way we did it?
It only ’appened ‘bout a year ago,
The Battle Cruisers caught ’em, and the Dread-ohs nearly taught ’em
When darkness fell and spoilt our little show.

THE REAL THING

The patrol had not been a very interesting one so far, and nothing out of the way had happened. Moreover, it was the first that ‘123’ had made since her return to duty, and at the end of a day at sea the crew were already slipping back to the familiar routine. They had just finished lunch and had been diving since four in the morning, and nothing had occurred to break the monotony of the usual underwater stillness. There was no indication of what was going to happen, and the men off watch were stretched out in the battery compartments putting away a little over and above their ordinary allowance of sleep, while the control room was tenanted solely by the second coxswain at the planes, and the helmsman, who was biting his nails and staring into the gyro repeater. Faint gurgles came now and again from the vents, and occasionally the steering chain rattled, but otherwise there was scarcely any noise. Behind the green curtains Raymond and Seagrave were reading magazines, and Boyd was asleep in the little box-shaped upper bunk. The indicator of the Forbes’ log gave a click and announced another mile completed, and the master compass hummed its continuous tune to itself as it buzzed happily round.

It was Seagrave who saw them first. He had brought the boat up to eighteen feet and taken the customary wary look round the horizon, and the coxswain was surprised that he got no order to ‘take her down again.’

Seagrave came in quietly from the control room and tapped his skipper on the shoulder.

‘Will you have a look through the periscope, sir?’ he asked.

Raymond looked up sharply.

‘Yes, all right,’ he answered, and stepped through into the control room where the coxswain watched him with curious eyes as he peered through the lens.

Presently he lowered the instrument.

‘Keep her at eighteen feet,’ was all he said as he rejoined Seagrave in the ward room.

‘Do you think it’s anything, sir?’ the latter asked eagerly.

‘Yes, I think it is. Call Boyd.’

Together they pored over the chart, and the situation was explained to the navigator, who did mysterious things with parallel rulers, and finally announced that they must be coming from ‘there,’ which was a well-known German base.

Raymond nodded, and went back to the periscope, where he remained silent for several moments. Away on his port bow the rim of the horizon was broken by three tiny smudges of smoke, one behind the other, which were coming towards him over the glassy calm sea, and would eventually cross his bows. He took a careful bearing, and noted that the shapes of slender hulls were forming below the smoke blurs before he lowered the periscope again.

‘Diving stations,’ he ordered.

‘Diving stations,’ repeated Seagrave, tingling with anticipation, and ‘diving stations’ echoed the coxswain, springing to life from a heavy slumber in the after battery compartment.

There was no particular haste and no noise at all. Few of the crew, with the exception of the coxswain and one or two old campaigners who had been with Raymond up the Marmora, had ever made a serious attack before, but for all that there was no excitement: this was what they had been waiting and training for for years, and now it had come. Rather there was an atmosphere of pleasurable anticipation and quiet confidence that the captain would do the right thing. They knew their lives were in his hands. He was the only man who could see the enemy, and if he made a single mistake ... but then he wouldn’t make a mistake, and it was their job to carry out his orders and see that others did so. In two minutes the crew were at diving stations, the L.T.O.’s at the motor-boards, Seagrave and the T.I. at the tubes, the coxswains at the diving wheels, and the remainder at their various posts of Kingstons and vents. Forward a couple were whispering together about some previous experience, another man grinned sheepishly, and then Raymond’s voice broke the silence.

‘Destroyers. Three of them. German all right. Flood the tubes.’

The order was passed forward by Boyd and echoed by Seagrave from the electric lit recesses of the fore-end. They were in earnest now, and this was the real thing.

‘Up periscope,’ came Raymond’s voice again, and as the instrument slipped upwards he bent down and slowly straightened himself with his eye at the lens.

‘Boyd,’ he cried from the control room, ‘they’re steering nor’west and bearing 160 deg. Time 1.10 p.m.’

‘Ay, ay, sir,’ replied the navigator, notebook in hand.

With the air-manifold Hoskins was blowing water from the fore-trim into the tubes, and forward they were watching the gauges. A hiss and a spurt of water and the E.R.A. shut off the blow and mopped his brow with a piece of dirty waste.

‘Down periscope. Steer south-west,’ in the incisive tones of the captain.

‘Firing tanks charged, sir,’ came Seagrave’s voice from forward. ‘Tubes flooded.’

‘Ay, ay,’ called Raymond.

It was all so sudden. Ten minutes ago and they had all been sleeping peacefully or keeping a monotonous and familiar watch. And now, in another ten minutes? Well, rats in a trap might have a better chance ... if anything went wrong.

‘Up periscope,’ came the captain’s voice again. ‘Keep a steady course. Bearing 215 deg., Boyd. Stand by.’

‘Stand by,’ called Seagrave from forward. Then, as the valves and cocks were opened, ‘All ready, sir.’

All eyes were glued on the gauges and meters.

‘When I fire dive to sixty feet,’ broke in Raymond. ‘What’s her depth? Keep her down, man. Steady. Oh, damn! he’s seen me. Fire!’

As the boat shook to the release of the torpedo, the coxswains buzzed their wheels round, but owing to the sudden alteration in weight the boat wouldn’t answer quickly.

‘Saw the wake of the periscope in this flat calm,’ went on Raymond, more to himself than the crew. ‘Oughtn’t to have attacked. Take her down, I tell you. They’ve altered course to ram, and they’re firing at us. Oh, hell! Flood the auxiliary. Quick, now. Down periscope.’

As the auxiliary Kingston and vent came open the boat began to feel it, and dived quickly. At fifty feet a roaring noise overhead like a train passing through a tunnel announced that one of the Destroyers was passing over them, and at eighty feet an explosion, which shook the boat to her internals, announced that the enemy had dropped a depth-charge above them, and that they had gone down none too quickly.

The lights went out. Somewhere the shock had parted a lead, and for two horrible moments they went in pitch darkness plunging down to the bottom of the sea.

‘What water is there, Boyd?’ came the captain’s steady voice from the control room.

‘Twenty-five fathoms, sir,’ the navigator answered out of the darkness.

‘All right. Hold her up, coxswain.’

‘Ay, ay, sir. Can’t see the depth-gauge.’

Then they struck. Struck the bottom at 150 feet, with a slight cant downwards at a speed of five knots.

Mercifully the L.T.O., groping through the darkness, got to the emergency switch, and the spare lights came on just in time.

‘Stop the motors,’ called Raymond. ‘Is the bow-cap closed?’

‘Closed it as soon as we fired, sir, and drained the tubes,’ answered Seagrave.

‘Good. I fired as the leading Destroyer turned to ram. Missed, of course, but she was firing at us, and she’d have rammed us if we hadn’t got the mouldies off. She had to alter course for them, and as it was that depth-charge was pretty close.’

‘Depth-gauge jammed, sir,’ reported the coxswain. ‘68 lb. pressure on the periscope gauge.’

Raymond frowned. His quick dive to avoid destruction, coupled with the sudden obscuring of the lights, had landed him in an awkward situation. The boat had struck bottom with her motors under weigh, and had stuck her nose in the mud with 150 feet of water above her. The external pressure was 68 lb. to the square inch, and three watchful Destroyers were up above.

For a moment he thought they might have the grapnels on him, and a wild picture of having to come up and surrender flashed across his mind. But the men were watching him, and he knew what he ought to do.

‘Is the forward depth-gauge jammed?’ he called.

‘Yes, sir,’ answered Boyd. ‘Only goes to a hundred feet. It’s hard up.’

‘Right. Blow the buoyancy.’

The small tank was blown out, and in so doing it was put to almost its tested strain (it was guaranteed to 75 lb.) without any result. Then came the order:--

‘Group up. Astern both.’

‘Grouped up, sir,’ from Furness, as he brought the switch over and started the motors. It was just like ordinary practice dives, and he watched his ammeters with as much detachment as if nothing out of the way had taken place.

But nothing happened and the motors were stopped. ‘123’ was stuck hard and fast, and an uneasy feeling came over the captain. Seagrave was in the control room by now, and Boyd was making notes on the chart. Had they got the grapnels on him after all? No, of course not, they couldn’t have....

‘Blow the auxiliary.’

The big tank was emptied, and the boat should have had about eight tons of buoyancy and risen like a cork. But still nothing happened, and the gauges remained jammed and the pressure was still 68 lb. to the square inch. Forward somebody coughed, and the T.I. could be heard getting two of the spare torpedoes ready to load into the empty tubes.

‘Group up. Astern both,’ came the order again.

For a moment there was still no result. Then suddenly she shook herself clear from the jamb, and rushed up to surface like an empty bottle. The depth-gauge in the control room was out of action, but the forward one was working again, and Boyd sang out the readings as the boat rose.

‘Stop both,’ cried Raymond. ‘Ahead both. Hard a dive. Flood the auxiliary.’

‘Gauge reading, sir,’ called Boyd, ‘100 feet, and coming up fast.’

‘Hold her, coxswain,’ said Raymond.

‘Ninety feet, sir. Eighty feet, seventy, sixty,’ called Boyd. ‘Still rising fast, sir.’

‘Can’t keep her down, sir,’ jerked the coxswain over his shoulder.

‘Damn!’ remarked Raymond. ‘She’s too light still. Flood the buoyancy.’

But the tank in question had just been blown at 68 lb. and had a big pressure in it. It filled but slowly, and Boyd’s voice continued monotonously from the fore compartment,--

‘Forty feet, sir. Thirty feet. Still coming up. Twenty feet, rising fast. Ten feet. Surface.’

The auxiliary was flooding and nothing more could be done. With the periscope about six inches, Raymond lay on the deck and peeped through the lens.

‘All right, they’re a mile astern. Seen us, of course, and are coming for us. Get her down quickly.’

Then the auxiliary took effect, and the boat went down quickly, but in hand. Once more the Destroyers, all three of them this time, were heard passing over the top, and at a hundred feet a muffled explosion astern told where a depth-charge had exploded harmlessly. At 120 Raymond steadied her, and kept her at that level.

‘And that’s that,’ he said, after the boat had got her trim and the coxswains could manage her easily. ‘So much for that. I oughtn’t to have attacked in a flat calm; they were bound to see me.’

‘How far off were they when they spotted us?’ asked Boyd.

‘About a thousand yards. The leader opened fire and came for us. That was just before I fired. He’d have had us otherwise. I bet they’re rushing all over the place now on the look out. Let’s have a look at the chart.’

‘I think I’ll put the periscope up in an hour,’ he continued, ‘and have another smack if there’s a chance, but we’d better put her on the course for home all the same, 285 deg. it is. Then we can sit on the bottom when we get into 12 fathoms if necessary. How’s the battery?’

‘12.10 and 12.06, sir,’ answered Seagrave.

‘Hum, not bad. We’ve got enough amps.[17] for another attack, but it’ll mean legging it afterwards for shallow water and sitting on the bottom till dark. Better wait for another hour, though; they’ll be very much on the alert just now.’

Forward, Seagrave and the T.I. were making the necessary adjustments to two of the spare torpedoes, and a little later on launched them into the tubes. A few minor adjustments of trim had to be made by-and-by (they were on full fields and only doing about two knots), and presently Seagrave reported that they were ‘all ready forward again.’

The depth-gauge in the control room had been put right and was showing a steady 120 feet, far down out of the way of depth-charges and other unpleasantnesses, and the time dragged slowly on.

‘Shook me a bit when we came right up that time,’ remarked Raymond. ‘I made sure we were done in and was just waiting for the bump. When I got my eyes at the periscope they were about a mile astern, rushing round in circles. It wasn’t very healthy up there for a bit.’

‘I thought we should get it all right,’ put in Seagrave, ‘coming up to the surface like that. What was the matter?’

‘I had to blow a good drop of water to get her out of the mud. Then she came up with a rush and the tank wouldn’t fill quickly enough.’

‘Those blessed lights going caused all the trouble. It’ll be all right in a few minutes. The lead went where it comes through control-room bulkhead. Must have made the boat jump when that old bomb went off.’

‘Crowded five minutes,’ remarked Boyd. ‘However, all over and no one dead yet.’

‘It’s all right for you,’ said Raymond grimly. ‘But I’ve just wasted two torpedoes and over £2000 of my country’s money. If I don’t get something to-day death will be a happy release, as I shall probably incur their lordship’s “grave displeasure.”’

‘Better than losing the boat, anyway. Two old mouldies must have shaken the Boche a bit. How far off him did they go?’

‘Straddled her. I thought I’d got her at first. Otherwise I’d have dived at once and she wouldn’t have come so near us. The spread of the “fish” was what did it. Now I shall have to write a blessed explanation of it all, and you’ll read of our miss in the next list of “torpedoes fired.” Pleasant, isn’t it?’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. First time I’ve been under fire. Unexciting experience, too. But I don’t want to stick in the mud and then bounce up to the surface like that every time. Rather too tough for amusement. I wonder what they’re doing now. We must have entirely spoilt their day. They must be in a state. I bet they’re flying round looking for periscopes all over the ocean. Anyway, they’re just as scared of us as we are of them.’

‘I hope so. The battery’s our trouble. We can’t afford to run it too low or we’ll have to sit on the bottom here, and that won’t do the boat any good at this depth. I expect they guess we’re striking out for home if they know anything about submarines, which they’re bound to. We’ll have a look at half-past two and try another attack if they’re anywhere near, and then head it to the shallow water and sit tight till dark. If they’d been a bit quicker or we hadn’t fired at them they’d have had us that time, and they’re not likely to give up the hunt in a hurry. I know I shouldn’t if I thought there was an enemy submarine knocking about.’

The time dragged slowly on. Every one felt rather elevated and excited although the attack had failed. At least they had fired live torpedoes at the enemy, and the Destroyers were still somewhere up above them watching for the first sight of a periscope. The signs of the conflict had already been removed, and save where the two empty spaces where the spare torpedoes, now in the tubes, had been stowed, nothing remained to show that anything unusual had happened. In a submarine it is either pay or play. Either you get off scot-free or else you don’t come back, and the names of yourself and your crew adorn the casualty lists, spread over several days, to divert suspicion and the putting of two and two together by an inquisitive public.

The crew were feeling pleased with themselves. At last they had really seen something and carried out a real attack. True, it had failed, but the weather had been against them, and submarines weren’t reckoned as much of a match against Destroyers anyway, and at any rate they had all had a shot for it. This was the thing they had been waiting for for years, and now it _had_ come they were surprised at its suddenness and how like peace time practice it was. Somehow they had imagined it would be different, and yet it wasn’t, except that the target was doing its best to do them in, and was waiting on top for the first sign of the periscope.

Dimly they began to realise that much of the peace time routine which they had voted as unnecessary work was of use after all when the real thing came. The Stoker P.O. was telling the coxswain that it was the first time he had been in a submarine that had fired a live torpedo, and the second coxswain was relating his experiences when in a boat captained by an officer well known in submarine circles, who used to exercise his crews at diving stations in the dark, in preparation for just such a mishap as had overtaken them this afternoon.

Two o’clock came and went. The Forbes’ log ticked slowly on as ‘123’ crept away from the scene of the first attack. There was nothing to do, and it got rather dull and monotonous after the recent activities.

A thin pencil line on the chart showed where they were heading for home and shallow water, in case a possible second attack should run the battery down, and necessitate sitting on the bottom until they could rise under cover of friendly nightfall and slip away unnoticed in the dark. It was rather a case of the hunter hunted. Once seen and located, and the enemy Destroyers would be sure to press home the pursuit to the bitter end. It seemed strange to be sitting down here under the electric light, nibbling bits of chocolate and reading magazines, with the knowledge that in half an hour’s time one hoped to be having another smack at the German a hundred odd feet above.... Still....

‘Diving stations,’ ordered Raymond, looking at the clock.

The boat started and came to life, the men going quietly to their places tingling with the expectancy of what might come. Perhaps they might have better luck this time, or perhaps ... not. Anyway....

‘Thirty feet,’ said Raymond. ‘Bring her up slowly.’

The depth-needle crept back. Somehow there was a slight feeling of apprehension this time. The novelty of actual attack had worn off, and having been through it once there was always the feeling of what was to come. People who read the accounts of vessels being sunk by submarines and talk glibly of piracy and other nonsense from the depths of their arm-chairs never realise the nerve required to carry out those attacks, or the feeling of being cooped up in a tiny shell out of reach of air and sunlight, with the knowledge that there is no quarter meted out to the undersea-forces. Neither do they realise that orders are orders, and that the German submarine captains are merely obeying their orders when they torpedo merchant ships at sight. Wrong it may be, and undoubtedly is, but the fault lies with the higher command and not with the individuals. Did they disobey orders they would lay themselves open to be shot as traitors. The so-called ‘well-worn platitude of obeying orders’ is no chimera, but an actual and very real fact, which urges men to commit actions which may be wholly against their finer feelings.

As the boat rose Raymond reduced to full fields, and presently she steadied at thirty feet. Then the periscope was raised, and after a final look round the captain spoke again,--

‘Eighteen feet. Bring her up quickly, so that you can get down again at once if necessary.’

The two coxswains moved their wheels. Again that tense, strained feeling came over the boat. The men were all on the alert, waiting for the expected result.

As she came up Raymond kept his eye at the lens watching for the moment the periscope would break surface. The men stood by; there was always the horrible possibility of rising right under the keel of an enemy Destroyer.

At nineteen feet the captain lowered the periscope quickly, and the boat descended to the thirty foot level. Then came the expected order,--

‘Flood the tubes.’

‘They’ve spread out,’ Raymond explained, as Seagrave departed forward in a state of bustle. ‘Two of them are astern on either quarter, and the other’s about a mile ahead. They’re looking for us, but so far they haven’t seen us. Steer 270 deg.’

‘Steer 270 deg. Course, sir,’ echoed the helmsman mechanically.

‘Eighteen feet,’ ordered Raymond, and up came the periscope, the captain following the lens up with his eye as the instrument rose.

‘Right. Down periscope. Keep her at her depth. Stand by.’

‘Stand by, sir,’ Seagrave called out. ‘All ready, sir.’

‘When I fire dive to 60 feet,’ continued Raymond. ‘Up periscope.’

The moment had come once more, and the eyes of the boat were glued to gauges and meters. The log ticked on, and the repeater-compass clicked to itself as the seconds went by. Somewhere forward a man sneezed, and the sound broke the tension like the crack of a pistol.

‘Keep her at her depth. Steady helm now. Sixty feet. Fire!...’

A few seconds tense waiting, while the boat dived down into the safer regions. Boyd was holding the stop-watch and counting the seconds mechanically.

‘Hard-a-port,’ said Raymond. ‘Steer’....

Booooooom. A muffled explosion right ahead drowned all other sounds and shook ‘123’ till she rocked like a trawler in a sea way. Then the helm went over and she steadied on her new course.

‘Thirty-five seconds, sir,’ said Boyd, snapping to the watch.

‘Got him!’ exulted Raymond, as his boat broke into one explosive grin. ‘Keep her at 60 feet and steer N.W. for the present.’

Then Seagrave came aft, his duty done, and there being nothing else that could affect the safety of the boat, the crew fell out from diving stations and the officers opened the ceremonial and only bottle of champagne.

‘Not so bad,’ said Raymond, raising his glass. ‘I got him as he was crossing the bow. Makes me feel a bit ill to think of the poor beggars killed or drowning while we’re here all nice and comfortable, but the others will probably pick most of them up. Here’s how.’

‘By Jove, it’s good business,’ chimed in Boyd, ‘and aren’t the men pleased. Thank God, we’ve done something at last.’

‘Are you going to have a look at her presently,’ asked Seagrave.

‘Oh, by-and-by. We’ll carry on like this for half an hour. They’ll be flapping about a bit up there yet. Do you realise how lucky we’ve been, and how many of our boats have never seen a thing yet. You ought to go down on your graceless knees and thank High Heaven for your good fortune.’

‘I do, I do. Or rather I would if this weren’t the only pair of trousers I’ve got in the boat. Shall I reload the tubes?’

‘Yes, you’d better, but we won’t fire any more “fish” to-day, thank you. Four torpedoes for one Destroyer is rather too expensive. Well, put her on to 285 deg. again, and leg it for shallow water. Let’s see, it’s three o’clock now. How’s the battery?’

‘11.85 and 11.81, sir,’ came the voice of the L.T.O., bending over the pilot-cell.

‘None too good,’ went on the skipper. ‘We’ll carry on on the series switch till five o’clock, we’ll be in 12 fathoms then, and sit on the bottom till dark. Ten o’clock will do it, I think.’

‘How about having a look at them?’ inquired Seagrave.

‘Yes, I think we might as well. I can’t resist the temptation much longer. We’d better go to diving stations, though, before we rise.’

Once more the boat came up, and at twenty-one feet the periscope was slowly hoisted and Raymond took his quick look round.

‘All right,’ he announced to the expectant crew. ‘She’s sinking fast by the head--the others are standing by. Hit her right amidships and blown two of her funnels out. There’s a lot of things floating in the water, though, and a boat is dodging about. She’s almost gone. Want a look?’

Seagrave and Boyd in turn stepped to the periscope and gazed at the stricken Destroyer, now at her last gasp. Her comrades were dashing round her at high speed in a wide circle, and heads and debris of all sorts were bobbing on the surface.

‘Beastly, isn’t it?’ said Raymond, taking another look. ‘Makes you feel a bit sick to think we’re responsible for it all. Ah! there she goes. She’s under now. I’d like to get another, all the same, but rather too risky. Right. Down periscope 40 feet. Fall out diving stations.’

Then they went down once more to the greeny depths, and the normal routine was resumed. But it wasn’t quite the same. From the other side of the curtains the whispering voices of the men and the subdued talk from aft had taken on a new tone. To all appearances they were back to ordinary diving routine, the coxswain and helmsmen in the control room and the rest scattered over the boat, but a subtle change had taken place. Before, they had been playing at it, but now, well, those heads bobbing on the water were mute evidence of the experience they had been through.

Perhaps in the heat of an action it may be different, and one may feel differently about it, but in a submarine where no one but the captain sees the enemy there is always rather an aftermath to cold-bloodedness, a realisation of what the others have gone through. True, at the time, one realises that if the enemy is not put under, one’s own boat and her crew will be, but after the first excitement has worn off and the torpedoes have been fired and found their mark, comes the feeling of not having given the men a sporting chance, the feeling one had at school after having ‘dotted the other fellow’ one on the nose or taken the starch out of some one who was always ridiculing us. One wanted to shake hands afterwards and be magnanimous (horrible word), and forget the whole thing. But there was no shaking hands here, and there were some who wouldn’t shake hands again ever ... up there ... heads bobbing on the sea. Beastly.....

The whisperings grew fainter, and the talk in the after compartment flagged and ceased. The men off watch were dropping off to sleep, and Seagrave and Boyd had clambered into their bunks. Forward the four empty racks showed the day’s work done, and behind the tube doors the spare torpedoes were shipped and ready in case of necessity.

Raymond sat writing out his report, a short, concise narrative of the events, for the benefit of Captain Charteris and ‘their Lordships,’ those vague beings of Whitehall whose opinions rule the Naval world.

There was no periscope watch just yet, as it was too dangerous to risk being seen for a while, and ‘123’ jogged slowly homewards (she was due in to-morrow morning) at the forty feet level, at the sedate speed of slightly under two knots an hour.

At four o’clock tea appeared, and the boat came to life once more. Men could be heard passing aft on their way to the meal, and an opening of lockers and clattering of crockery announced the progress of the meal. In the ward room the officers took theirs off the chart-table and talked of mice and men.

‘Seems a bit queer to sit here and eat bread and jam,’ said Boyd, breaking a momentary silence, ‘with all those beggars killed up there, and the rest of them either in a blue funk or dashing about to Gott strafe us. I wonder what they’re up to. Are you going to have another look?’

‘After tea,’ said Raymond, ‘and then we’ll have to sit down at five o’clock. About twelve fathoms, isn’t it?’

‘Twelve and a half, I make it,’ replied Boyd. ‘Anyway, quite shallow enough, and only 140 miles from home. Shall we rise at ten o’clock?’

‘Depends how dark it is. We’ll have to put on a big charge on the way home, and start it as soon as we rise; it won’t do the battery any good to be left as it is now for too long.’

When the meal was cleared away, the boat was brought to eighteen feet and the periscope hoisted once more.

‘All serene-oh,’ said Raymond. ‘They’re about four miles astern, I reckon. Can’t see much but the smoke. Down periscope. Thirty feet. We’ll start periscope watch again,’ he added, turning to Seagrave. ‘Keep a good look out at them.’

Boyd took over the watch, and the old order was re-established, the boat rising to eighteen feet for the ‘look-see’ every ten minutes, and then going down again to thirty feet.

Somehow the time dragged on, but it wasn’t very interesting, and every one was looking forward to ten o’clock and fresh air after the day’s turmoils.

Then five o’clock arrived, and the crew were once more ordered to diving stations, and Raymond took the periscope and had a final look round.

‘Nothing in sight,’ he announced. ‘Seventy-five feet of water, coxswain, and sixteen feet below us. We ought to ground with about fifty-nine feet on the gauge. Take her down.’

She went down slowly. At thirty feet Raymond stopped the motors and let a little water into the auxiliary through the vent, as she lost weight.

‘How’s the bubble?’ he asked.

‘Midship, sir. She’s horizontal,’ answered the coxswain.

The depth-needle crept on. Fifty feet, fifty-five, sixty, sixty-two, and then a light jar was felt and a faint upward pressure on the soles of the feet like a passenger feels when a lift reaches the bottom of the shaft in a Tube station.

The boat was on the bottom.

‘Six tons in the auxiliary,’ ordered Raymond. The boat took on a slight list to port and then righted and lay still. The depth-meter was steady at fifty-two feet.

‘Fall out diving stations,’ said the captain. ‘One hand keep watch in the control room and call me if the depth-meter shifts or we take on a list, coxswain.’

The crew dispersed and the officers returned to the ward room.

An even deader stillness than usual prevailed now that the boat was stationary and had gone to sleep on the bottom. The talk of the men in the after compartment drifted in and was the only sound that broke the underwater silence. In the control room sat the watch-keeper with his eyes on the gauges, sixty-two feet on the depth-gauge, and thirty pounds pressure to the square inch. The long-suffering battery was having a rest and the crew proceeded to follow its example.

Raymond and Boyd turned in and Seagrave picked up a book. Above, somewhere astern, were two pannicky Destroyers and other things as well; and somewhere else, at the bottom of the sea also, was the dead Destroyer who would destroy no more.... Ah, well....

Dinner came at eight o’clock, rather a sumptuous affair in honour of the occasion, and full justice was done to the cook’s culinary efforts to live up to the event. Finally the bottle was opened after a teetotal meal, and Boyd poured out the port.

‘As somebody or other once wisely observed,’ said Raymond, as he prepared to drink, ‘a drop of whisky makes the whole world kin, but give me a touch of the good old fruity as a really finishing end to a perfect day. Whew! it’s getting stuffy.’

‘Always seems to after dinner,’ replied Boyd. ‘Must be the effort of eating after sixteen hours’ diving, or else we eat so much that there isn’t any room for fresh air.’

‘Or much air, either,’ said Seagrave, ‘not after twenty or so other people have used it. This is the longest dive I’ve ever done, but as regards the amount of grub eaten, that’s entirely a personal matter. Do you mean to insinuate....’

‘That you ate a pound of cherries to-day? Of course I do. I admit I’ve been asleep most of the day, but whenever I’ve woken up and cocked an eye over the bunkboard I’ve seen you gobbling fruit like a schoolgirl at a bun struggle.’

‘Well, I’ve had a system, and I haven’t been able to work it this patrol, but the idea is to eat six cherries between looks through the “perisher,” and suck the stones while I’m there.’

‘Beastly habit,’ said Raymond. ‘We’ll have to stop bringing out fruit if it’s going to lead to these debauches.’

‘And deprive me of my sole pleasure in life. That’s a bit ’ard.’

‘It’s a bit ’ard on me that I can’t get any cherries at all on account of your gormandising habits. That’s what’s a bit ’ard.’

‘Are you going to wait till ten before rising?’ asked Boyd, changing the subject skilfully.

‘It’s getting a bit fuggy, so I think we’ll come up at nine-thirty. What time is it now?’

‘Nine o’clock. I shan’t be sorry to get up, for one. That’ll be seventeen hours and a half, and quite long enough for my small needs. I’m not ambitious in that direction.’

‘No, I think we’ll make it half-past nine. You’d better warn them in the engine-room, Seagrave, that we’ll want full speed as soon as possible after rising. One can’t say that they’re not still on the look-out for us, and we can’t afford to hang about.’

Boyd busied himself with his charts and laid the course for home. ‘A hundred and thirty-five miles to go,’ he pronounced, ‘at twelve knots gets us in at about nine to-morrow morning. Just a good time to come in, _and_ a silk ensign and the skull and crossbones.’

‘Hardly a good enough bag for all that,’ said the captain; ‘we might run to the silk ensign, I think, but we’ll hang on to the other till we sink a Hun Dreadnought or a big Fritz or something of that sort. All ready, Seagrave? Right. Diving stations.’

Then they rose, rose swiftly off the bottom, and steadied at twenty feet, when Raymond hoisted the periscope.

‘Seems quite dark,’ he said. ‘Always looks darker through the periscope than it really is, though. Good enough, blow 1, 2, and 3.’

When the hatch was opened it _was_ considerably lighter than expected, and the engines were started off and worked up to full speed as soon as possible. Raymond wouldn’t allow any one but himself, Boyd, and the helmsman on the bridge, and all unnecessary gear was left below. Even the bridge screen remained furled, and the captain kept a steady look-out aft for possible pursuers.

Luckily the sea was still calm, and they got well away by midnight, after which the crew were allowed on deck and things made comfortable for the night. It had been a queer feeling, though, rising from the bottom of the sea up into the dusk, the quick hustle and the scurry for home, and the keen look-out aft through the gloom for signs of an enemy who might have seen the boat push her way up out of her watery funk-hole.

However, she was safe now, and the night slipped by with the usual surface watches, and daylight found ‘123’ off the coast and heading for the faint outline of home just visible on the horizon.

Then the sun rose higher and the land disappeared, to become visible again later on about twenty miles distant.

The silk ensign, sign of conquest and good luck, was hoisted, and ‘123’ made her number and answered the challenge. The outside patrols became active and the mine-sweepers on their outward way dragged past them, their kites towing behind and bouncing over the water as they went. Somebody on a trawler evidently saw what interested him, for a telescope went up and then came the signal. ‘Hearty congratulations,’ semaphored across in slow and painful sections by a shock-haired boy in a pair of baggy trousers.

‘Thanks very much,’ replied ‘123,’ as she hurried on to the harbour and headed through the gate. Then up and through the Fleet, the silk ensign fluttering in the breeze, and the boat came to rest once more alongside the _Parentis_ and outside the trot of submarines. Then she made fast, and the crew grinned at one another and broke away, carrying the debris of the trip down to the mess-decks.

‘’Ullo, cocky,’ said a man who was hammering an iron plate, ‘’ad a good trip?’

‘You bet we ’ave,’ replied the one addressed, who was carrying a bucket full of potatoes and a loaf of bread. ‘You bet we ’ad. Saw Fritz, too.’

‘Reely. You ’it ’im?’

‘Course we did, do you think----’

Somewhere up on the quarter-deck a voice said,--

‘Hallo, Raymond’s back. Gee-whiz. Look what he’s flying. What is it, Raymond?’

‘Only a wee one,’ came the answer.

‘You lucky beggar. Captain wants to see you, by the way.’

And there we will leave him, making his formal report in the Service way to Captain Charteris, while the story ran round the mess-decks, by Lower Deck wireless, where it was received with nods of approval and caustic criticism by those who had been through it all before, and knew the details, and could fill in the gaps for themselves. The Depot blinked a bit over the issue of four new torpedoes, but albeit she was satisfied and sat down again and said nothing.

* * * * *

That night after dinner the story was retold in the ward room, embellished, and with detail, the listeners taking an immense professional interest in the narrative, and agreeing and disagreeing with one another on what they would have done under the circumstances.

‘When I saw my bloke last month,’ said Austin, ‘I left him severely alone. It was a flat calm, and I thought Destroyer-dodging wasn’t good enough.’

‘I don’t know,’ put in Johnson, ‘I think I’d have had a shot if I’d been in your place. One can only miss after all.’

‘The point is, though,’ this from Carruthers, ‘is it worth while risking the loss of one’s boat for the sake of one Destroyer? Personally, I don’t think it is.’

‘I agree there,’ replied Austin; ‘a submarine, now, is a different thing. If I thought I had the vaguest chance of straffing a U-boat I’d go in for it whatever the cost. I think myself that it would be as much loss to Germany from a purely military point of view as it would be if I sank a Dreadnought.’

‘That may be,’ said Johnson, ‘but I do think that whatever you see you ought to have a smack at, and I give Raymond full points for his stunt of yesterday. It’s undoubtedly a nasty job messing about with Destroyers or anything at all, for that matter, on a calm day, but I think it’s worth it if there’s a reasonable chance of getting something.’

‘I was in two minds about it myself,’ broke in Raymond, ‘but they were so bally tempting I couldn’t resist it, and then when I’d missed I felt I couldn’t come back without having another shot and getting something for my money.’

‘Risky job, my boy, risky,’ cried the Torpedo Lieutenant from the depth of his arm-chair. ‘Mustn’t be too bold and rash, you know.’

‘Oh, shut up, Torps, and don’t gass so much. The blessed “fish” ran straight, and that’s all you need worry about. When I feel particularly suicidal I’ll take you out with me and do the job in style. We’ll all drown together and go down to posterity in the guise of saints then, a _dis_guise by the way of a most efficient order in your case.’

‘Your pardon, Lord. I shall refuse to come.’

‘Thank God for that.’

‘Then I shall most certainly _insist_ on coming next trip. I shall----’

‘How far off were they when you first saw them?’ broke in a voice from the other end of the ward room.

‘Oh, about four miles. I saw the smoke at first and hustled off in their direction.’

‘You must have had a pretty long fug afterwards, didn’t you?’

‘It was a bit mouldy sitting on the bottom, but we managed to turn up smiling.’