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.