The minutes are eternal. We may be detected every second. The shore is
only a mile from us. The funnels are our despair. They still emit too
much smoke and sparks. At last a warning is heard from the bridge.
"Ready."
The Lieutenant looks at his watch, lighting the dial with the lamp
hidden in his hand. The enormous mines, whose heads are charged with
destruction, are there silent, like gigantic, gray, petrified sea
Medusas, fixed on their support, whose double tooth projects over the
waters.
"Ready! Let go!"
The first mine rolls over with the sound of a shattering barrel, falls
in the foaming sea, disappears.
"Ready! Let go!"
Eighteen seconds elapse. The second falls, followed by the third,
fourth, and all the others, on every ship which maintains a diagonal
course nearing the coast. In three minutes the operation is over; the
mines are planted in the exact spot. The teeth of the crew gleam in a
wild smile. Each sailor sees in his heart the enemy's battleships rent
and sinking.
"Four--Three--Three--Zero."
We assume our position at the head of the line, returning on our course
with the initial speed. The ships seem now to me to be quivering with
warlike joy. In the distance over the mainland the white beams of the
searchlights still cross each other. Ever and anon a rocket explodes.
Our wake now is so beautiful as to resemble a whirling milky way. A
sailor mounts the bridge and gives us a cup of steaming coffee, whose
aroma titillates our nostrils and our heart. We light our cigarette.
But here is a Marconigram.
"Look out, two submarines are lying in wait for you on the safe route."
And in the first quiver of dawn, with expanded lungs, we again breathe
danger and death.