Impatience gnaws my heart. I strain my sight to discern in the darkness
the signal which has been prearranged. Nothing is to be seen yet. I
descend from the ladder and move toward the stern, skirting the row of
torpedoes, leaping over the outstretched sailors. From the stern the
dark silhouettes of the other destroyers in line are visible. All of
a sudden the signal is flashed in the direction of the prow. We are
nearing the spot of our operation. Every will is strained.
"One--Two--Zero."
The speed is reduced to six knots. The funnels still emit too much
smoke and too many sparks. The commander is furious. Orders are
megaphoned and every word seems to crowd the adventurous air with
danger. The manoeuvre is executed with sort of rhythmic precision.
Maintaining their distance, and one by one, every ship files to the
starboard of us, standing black over the foaming wake, lighted every
now and then by a strange phosphorescence.
"On reaching the eastern route for the planting of the mines,
extinguish the stern lights," cries the megaphone. Under the playing
searchlights the enemy's coast is clearly visible. We are in low water,
and the speed is further diminished.
"One--Zero--Zero."
We almost touch bottom, and proceed by feeling our course ahead. We
also take soundings continuously to avoid running aground. The ships
seem to pant and puff grievedly, as great mammals in danger of running
ashore.
"Reverse engines. Full speed!"
One of the ships feels she cannot manoeuvre any longer, having actually
struck bottom, and endeavors to free herself. She lies ahead of us,
and within speaking distance. We see the water glitter under the blue
light of her stern lanterns. It seems to us now that every other ship
is in danger. The sky is veiled. Long Medusan tresses of clouds drag
the constellation as the net drags silvery fishes. The engines throb
painfully.
The commander is there, all soul, defying the darkness with his eyes.
What if at that moment the enemy should sight us?
"The _Invitto_ leads."
His clear orders through a series of manoeuvres draw away the flotilla
from the shallow waters and on to the safe course. Beyond, on the
shore, the enemy's searchlights are seen crossing each other like white
blades. Under the light the shore seems so near as to give one the
illusion of being about to drop anchor. We are all tensely waiting. In
a few seconds we shall be in the prearranged spot. Minutes seem hours.
The rubber stoppers have been removed from the tubes. The mines are
ready, on their supports, to be lowered into the sea. The sailors await
the order standing.