Part 12

‘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.’