Preparations
"The brutes!" ejaculated Vernon savagely. He was violently excited.
Perspiration was pouring off his face at the thought of the almost
unparalleled act of wanton treachery that was about to be enacted. "If
we could only prevent them!"
"I can't see how," rejoined Ross gloomily. "We cannot give an alarm.
If we could control the valves for half a minute, I'd sink this blessed
craft with all on board, myself included, for good and all. But it is
no use talking of the impossibly heroic."
"I have a plan," announced Vernon, after thinking deeply for a few
minutes.
"Well, out with it!"
"We have to pass through one of the broadside torpedo-rooms as we go on
deck. We could each snatch a spanner and give the war-heads a terrific
blow. You'll remember that there are half a dozen torpedoes in the
cages against the bulkhead. It would mean certain death for us, but it
would save nearly a thousand lives."
Ross shook his head.
"There's no certainty of success," he objected. "Those torpedoes are
very much like our own Whiteheads. The striker in the head is
protected against accidental discharge by a small propeller. Until the
torpedo travels a certain distance through the water--sufficient for
the resistance against the blades to cause the safety device to
unthread and leave the striker free to hit the primer--the danger of
premature explosion is almost negligible. We shouldn't have time to
revolve the safety blades enough, and I'm pretty certain that even a
heavy blow on the war-head itself would not explode the charge."
"Then I'm done," said Vernon dejectedly. "Think of something, old
man--something that will hold water."
Silence ensued for nearly ten minutes, broken only by the tapping of
the waves against the sides of the submarine, and the gentle purr of
the dynamos for supplying light to the interior of the vessel.
Suddenly Ross leapt out of his bunk. He dared not trust himself to
speak above a whisper for fear of being overheard.
"Dash it all, old man!" exclaimed Vernon, when his chum had confided
his plans; "it ought to work. If it doesn't, nothing else will. I'm
on it, happen what may!"
"We'll want our knives for the job," continued Ross. "Yours will open
easily, I hope? Good! Sharp? We'll run no risks. A sharp blade is
absolutely necessary."
They drew the knives and whetted the blades upon the soles of their
boots. At Vernon's suggestion they kept open the big blades, making a
hole through the lining of their pockets in order to keep the knives in
a horizontal position and ready to hand.
"Now let's turn in properly," suggested the practical Ross. "We want
to be fairly fresh for the job in front of us."
Soon after sunrise on the morrow all hands were mustered aft on deck,
Ross and Vernon included. It was a bright morning. The sun had risen
seemingly out of the sea, or in nautical parlance it was a "low dawn".
There was a chilliness in the air that made the lads wish that they had
been wearing overcoats.
They looked in vain for U75's consort. The unterseeboot that was to
deal the coward's blow was not to be seen. Her presence was to be kept
a secret from the crew of the decoy.
Kapitan Schwalbe, accompanied by his Unter-leutnant, made his way aft.
He looked pale and care-worn. He had lost his military manner. His
gait suggested that of a man recovering from a long illness.
"My men," he exclaimed, "circumstances over which I have no control
make it necessary to bring our cruise to a speedy termination. U75 is
no longer in a state of efficiency, either for offence or flight. It
therefore remains for us to save our lives by surrendering to the first
English ship of war that we fall in with. It is a humiliating and
distasteful step to take, but there is no option."
The crew heard this lying speech in silence. They hardly knew what to
make of it. The majority mentally decided that it was better to be
imprisoned in England than to rot on the bed of the sea. Kapitan
Schwalbe had no faith in his men's histrionic abilities; he was also
afraid that they would oppose the scheme that he himself had deprecated
as being too risky.
Hiding their indignation, Ross and his chum saw the Kapitan hand a
petty officer a white flag. The man took it, and lashed short pieces
of cord to two adjacent corners.
Hans Koppe sidled up to his charges.
"You will soon be free," he remarked. "Ach! but you do not seem
overjoyed. You English are indeed a queer race."
Receiving no reply, the man went below to follow the example of his
comrades, who were getting together their personal belongings. Many of
them thought of the times when they had seen non-belligerents do
likewise. It was the boot on the other foot with a vengeance.
Ross gave another glance across the horizon. Nothing was in sight.
Gripping his chum's arm, he led him for'ard. U75 was motionless. The
deck was deserted. A quartermaster stood on the navigation platform in
front of the conning-tower. Kapitan Schwalbe and his Unter-leutnant
had likewise vanished.
As Ross passed the conning-tower, he pulled out his knife and deftly
severed the lashings of a couple of buoys secured to the hand-rail. It
was the first act of the lad's plan of operations.
"Vessel on the port bow, sir!" shouted the quartermaster.
Kapitan Schwalbe was on deck in a trice, closely followed by his
subordinate. For a few moments, he kept his binoculars focused upon
the indistinct grey object, then three miles off.
"It is the _Tremendous_," he announced in an undertone to the
Unter-leutnant. "Another ten minutes will see the business through."
He spoke with confidence, but it was a confidence inspired by a liberal
dose of brandy. He felt that he had already passed the Rubicon. There
could be no turning back.
A whistle trilled shrilly. At the signal the men again doubled aft,
and joined up in a double line.
"Where are the English boys?" enquired Kapitan Schwalbe.
"Coming," replied Ross. For the first time on board he omitted to add
the word "sir". His omission was deliberate. Utter contempt for the
German captain consumed him. Schwalbe, too, noticed the manner in
which he had replied. He smiled grimly, imagining that now the lads
thought themselves about to be free they could afford to be curt.
As the chums passed the lifebuoys, they deftly heaved them overboard.
They fell with hardly a splash, dropping close to the side of the
motionless submarine.
No one noticed the act. The attention of the crew was centred upon a
little ceremony that was taking place. Bareheaded, the men stood at
attention. Their voices broke into the song of "Die Wacht am Rhein" as
the emblem of German sea-power was slowly lowered from the ensign staff.
The men sang sonorously and in perfect cadence. They firmly believed
that it was their last tribute as free men to their Fatherland. As the
last bar terminated, the petty officer smartly hoisted the white flag.
For an instant it hung limply, confined by one of the halliards; then
like a square of stretched canvas it blew out in the steady breeze--a
modern counterpart of the kiss of Judas.
And standing just behind the Kapitan, within arm's reach of the ensign
staff, were Ross Trefusis and Vernon Haye.