We are thrashing down the Channel with a south-westerly wind right
ahead. My instructions are to work for two days between the Lizard and
Kinsale Head, and then proceed far out in the Atlantic, where the
convoys are supposed to meet the destroyers.
That Fair Island Channel experience was enough for a lifetime. Death,
quick, short and sudden, this I am ready for. But torture, slow, long
and drawn-out, is not in the bargain which in this year of grace every
civilized man and half the savages of the world seem to have had to
make with the god Mars.
As I sit in this steel, cigar-shaped mass of machinery, the question
rings incessantly in my ears: "To what object is all this war directed,
when analysed from the point of view of the individual?"
It does not satisfy any longing of mine. I have not got a lust for
battle: no one who fights has a lust for battle. Editors of newspapers
and people on General Staffs, possibly also Cabinet Ministers, have
lusts for battles, as long as they arrange the battle and talk about
it afterwards--curse them!
The only thing I want is to be with Zoe. I want to live and spend long
years with her, enjoying life--this life of which I have spent half
already, and now perhaps it will be taken from me by some other man:
some Englishman who doesn't really want to take my life, reckoned as an
individual.
Around me in the darkness are the patrol boats, manned by the
Englishmen who are seeking my life. Seeking it, not to gratify their
private emotions, but because we are all in the whirlpool of War and
cannot escape.
Like an avalanche, it seems to gather strength and speed as it rolls
on, this War of Nations. The world must be mad! I cannot see how it can
ever stop. England will never be defeated at sea. We shall conquer on
land--then what?
An inconclusive peace.
Even if we smash this island Empire and gain the dominion of the world,
how will it advantage me? I can see no way in which I can gain.
It would be said, if any one should read this: _Gott_! what a selfish
point of view--he thinks only of his personal gain, not of his country.
But, confound it all, I reply, answer me this:
Do I exist for my country, or does my country exist for me?
For example, does man live for the sake of the Church, or was the
Church created for man?
Does not my country exist for my benefit?
Surely it is so.
Then again, I am risking my all, my life; I live in danger,
apprehension and great discomfort; I do all these things, and yet if as
a reasonable man I ponder what advantage I am to gain from all these
sacrifices I am adjudged selfish.
It is all madness; I cannot fathom the meaning of these things.
* * * * *
In position on the Bristol line of approach, the weather is bad.
_At twenty metres._
Once again Death has stretched forth his bony fingers to catch me by
the throat, and only by a chance have I wriggled free.
Yesterday afternoon at 5 p.m. we sighted a small steamer flying Spanish
colours and steering for Cardiff. The weather was choppy, but not too
bad, and I decided to exercise the gun's crew, though I did not think
there would be much doing, as the Spaniards soon give in.
I opened fire at six thousand metres, and pitched a shell ahead of her
and ran up the signal to heave-to. The wretched little craft paid no
attention, and continued on her lumbering course. I suspected the
presence of an Englishman on her bridge, and determined to hit.
This we did with our sixth shot, and she stopped dead and wallowed in
the trough, with clouds of steam pouring out of her engine-room; we had
evidently got the engine-room.
As we closed her, it was evident that a tremendous panic was taking
place on board. The port sea boat was being launched, but one fall
broke and the occupants fell into the water. My Navigator begged me to
give her another, which I did, and hit her right aft. Two boatloads of
gesticulating individuals now appeared from the shelter of her lee side
and began pulling wildly away from the ship.
The Navigator, whose eyes were dancing with excitement, was very keen
to play with them by spraying the water with machine-gun bullets; but
it seemed to me to be waste of ammunition, and I would not permit it.
Meanwhile we had approached to within about four hundred metres of her
port bow. I was debating whether to accelerate her sinking, when I
noticed that a fire had broken out aft, and I became possessed with a
childish curiosity to see the fire being put out as she sank. It was a
kind of contest between the elements.
As I watched her, I was startled to hear three or four reports from the
region of the fire.
"Ammunition!" shouted the pilot, with wide-opened eyes.
In an instant I pressed the diving alarm as I realized our deadly
peril. Fool that I had been, she was a decoy-ship. They must have
realized on board that I had seen through their disguise, for as we
began to move forward, under the motors, a trap-door near her bows fell
down, the white ensign was broken at the fore, and a 4-inch gun opened
fire from the embrasure that was revealed on her side.
We were fortunate in that our conning tower was already right ahead of
the enemy, and as I dropped down into the conning tower, I saw that as
she could not turn we were safe.
A few shells plunged harmlessly into the water near our stern, and then
we were under.
We came up to a periscope depth, and I surveyed her from a position off
her stern. She was sinking fast, but I felt so furious at being nearly
trapped that I could not resist giving her a torpedo; detonation was
complete, and a mass of wreckage shot into the air as the hull of the
ship disappeared. As to the two boats, I left them to make the best
course to land that they could.
As they were fifty miles off the shore when I left them and it blew
force six a few hours afterwards, I rather think they have joined the
list of "Missing." We are now steering due west to our second position.
* * * * *
Received orders last night to return to base forthwith on the north
about route. [1]
[Footnote 1: This means into the North Sea round Scotland.--]
I have shaped course to pass fifty miles north of Muckle Flugga; no
more Fair Island Channel for me.
* * * * *
Statlandlet in sight, with the Norwegian coast looking very lovely
under the snow--we never saw a ship from north of the Shetlands to this
place, when we saw a light cruiser of the town class steaming
south-west at high speed.
She had probably been on patrol off this place, where the Inner and
Outer Leads join up and ships have to leave the three-mile limit.
She was well away from me, and an attack would have been useless. I did
not shed any tears; I have lost much of the fire-eating ideas which
filled my mind when I first joined this service.
* * * * *
We are due off the mole at 8 p.m. tonight, and my heart leaps with joy
at the thought of seeing my Zoe; already I can almost imagine her
lovely arms round my neck, her face raised to mine, and all the other
wonderful things that make her so glorious in my eyes.
_NOTE BY ETIENNE_
Before quoting the next entry in Karl's journal it is necessary to
explain the situation which confronted him when he arrived in
Zeebrugge. In his absence, his beloved Zoe had been arrested as an
Allied Agent, and she was tried for espionage within a day or two of
his arrival. There is no record of how he heard the news, and the blow
he sustained was probably so terrible that whilst there was yet hope he
felt no desire to write; but, as will be seen, there came a time when
he turned to his journal as the last friend that remained to him. It is
a curious fact that, with the exception of an entry at the beginning of
this journal, Karl makes little mention of his mother and home at
Frankfurt. Though he does not say so, it seems possible that his mother
had heard of his entanglement with Zoe, and a barrier had risen between
them; this suggestion gains strength from the fact that in his blackest
moments of despair he never seems to consider the question of turning
to Frankfurt for sympathy. Interest is naturally aroused as to the
details of Zoe's trial. The available material consists solely of the
long letter she wrote to him from Bruges jail. It may be that one day
the German archives of the period of occupation will reveal further
details. Information on the subject is possibly at the disposal of the
British Intelligence Service, but this would be kept secret. All we
know on the matter is derived from the letter, which has been preserved
inside the second volume of Karl's diary.
There seems no doubt that she was caught red-handed, but to say more
would be to anticipate her own words.
It was a matter of some difficulty to know where best to introduce
Zoe's letter, but with a view to securing as much continuity of thought
in the story as possible it has been decided to quote it at this
juncture, although he did not receive it until after he had made the
entry in the journal which will be quoted directly after the letter.
I would like to appeal to any reader who may happen to be engaged in
administrative or reconstructive work in Belgium, to communicate with
me, care of Messrs. Hutchinson, should he handle any papers dealing
with Zoe's trial.
_ETIENNE_.