The Norwegian ship on which I was embarked was nearing the Irish
Channel. The afternoon was misty, the sea rough. We were warned by an
English steamer of the presence of German submarines in the vicinity.
There was a certain depression among those on board.
I asked the Captain if there were anything to do. "No," he answered.
Boom! a cannon shot was heard at the very moment. General confusion.
All the men ran up on deck and looked about, terrified. Boom! another
cannon shot. Then one of the German sailors, pointing to a spot on the
horizon, said: "A German submarine."
It was true. The black spot grew rapidly larger, and then one could
make out some human figures near the small cannon on the deck. It was
the famous U-39. We hoisted our flag and awaited events. The Captain
sent the mate with our ship's papers over to the submarine, which was
now near. Soon those who were not German received orders to take to the
boats. The Germans were taken on board the U-39, I among them. When
this was done our ship was sunk.
So there I was on board a submarine. The impression of it was strange
enough. The first evening, quite exhausted, I threw myself down in a
corner. I heard a few short orders, then the sound of the machinery....
After that everything was in absolute silence. Some said we were
navigating at such a depth that big ships could pass overhead of us....
I fell asleep.
Next day on waking I tried to get my bearings. We Germans were treated
as friends. We were permitted to go about everywhere.
The boat had the shape of a gigantic cigar, about 200 feet long,
divided into numerous compartments. They were full of shining
instruments. Now there was a buzzing sound, like the inside of a
bee-hive, now absolute silence reigned. Every nerve was tense with
the expectation of the orders on which our lives depended. Toward the
prow was the room from which the torpedo was launched, a room full of
tubes and valves. The officers' lodgings are very restricted, since the
space on board a submarine proscribes any comfort. The commander was
Lieut. Capt. Foerstner, a tall young man, thin and pale--which is not
surprising, since he never had a moment's repose; neither he nor the
men of the crew ever got their clothes off during the twelve days I was
on board.
The periscope, the eye of the submarine, made known to us everything
that took place on the surface of the water, and it did so with such
clearness that it was almost like looking through a telescope. There
was always a man on watch there.