Part 9

"Yes," said the captain, not looking at me, "she's mostly guts below. Have a look at that destroyer. We are going to send a practice torpedo at her, and she will pick it up and return it when we get back home."

The sleek, lean warship was knifing the waters at 22 knots. It was like looking at a picture--a moving picture--and all was beautifully distinct. Our commander consulted a card, decided the speed of the warship, and then again propped his head against the reflector.

"Raise periscope," ordered the two-striper.

For the first time aboard the submarine, there was something akin to silence, except for the swishing of engines and the continuous buzz of other mechanism.

"Light to starboard," voiced the captain.

"Light to starboard," repeated the helmsman at the compass.

"Tube ready?" asked the commander, his head hidden between the black flaps of the periscope.

"Tube ready, sir."

The officer at the trigger stood like a starter at a race, his finger on the tongue that was to release the torpedo. It was just as it is in the real moment of moments and a war craft is the target. The men at the two wheels watched their dials and their bubbles, and the helmsman had his nose on the needle. The commander, the gold braid on his cuffs streaked with oil and rust, then had but one thought in his mind--to hit the target. He looked neither to right nor left but was still at the periscope. The warship was there. We were there, and one could imagine the tiny periscope just above the water. The situation was tense, even if the vessel to be fired at was not an enemy craft.

"Fire!" snapped the captain.

It was no order for men to spring "over the top," no battle-cry that was heard by the enemy, but the word under the water that is the order for the deadly destroyer to be released and speed on its way to the unsuspecting craft. Practice torpedo or not, when under the waves of the North Sea the word works up a dramatic situation hard to equal. The other officers and men are interested, and they told me that never does the word "Fire" fail to stir the soul of everybody aboard. Though the effect is heightened by the knowledge that a great vessel is the target and has been bored in twain, the interest is still thrilling when the submarine is practising. With a shot at the enemy there is, of course, the explosion to dread. If the submarine does not get away far enough, the explosion of the torpedo may be the cause of extinguishing all lights aboard the submarine, and lamps have then to be used.

There was a tiger-like growl or "g-r-rh" of anger as the tube sent out the greased steel complicated missile, and outside I pictured the white wake that streaked in the direction of the warship. It was not visible from the periscope, which a second after the signal to fire had been brought down under the surface. The comparative stillness was gone, and the inside of the submarine seemed to have awakened from a doze. There was all bustle and hurry around me. The captain shot a look at the gyroscopic compass and gave orders for the motors to go ahead, and for half an hour the submarine pushed about under the surface. Then the commander had the periscope raised, and on the distant horizon I made out the destroyer--a tiny thing even in the glass of the magnifying lens of the under-sea boat's "eye."

My feet were numbed with cold as I walked for'd and looked at the empty tube. These torpedoes cost £500 (two thousand, five hundred dollars), and in war time they are all set to sink if they fail to hit the target; set to sink because they might be used by the enemy or get in our own way.

The next thrilling moment came when the commander decided to bring his craft to the surface.

"Come to surface and blow external tanks!" ordered the two-striper. "Open five, six, seven, eight, to blow!"

The round, white perforated lungs of the submarine sucked in the air in the craft.

"Open one, two, three, four, to blow," came from the skipper.

"One, two, three, four, to blow," I heard repeated.

I felt no perceptible motion of ascending; but those lungs were working hard, which could be learned by placing your hand over them. The captain shot a glance at the dial, which told him how far up his vessel had gone, and then mounted the conning-hatch ladder, and soon one observed a spot of daylight. A sea washed over the submarine, filling the commander's boots with water. He was followed by a sailor, who quickly attached the lowered sailcloth bridge to the rails of the conning tower. Then the captain's expert and watchful eye caught bubbles coming from one of the tanks.

"Close one!" he shouted down the hatch.

"Close one," repeated the sub-lieutenant.

"Two, five, and seven," came from the voice outside, and so on, until soon all the tanks had pumped out their water and were filled with air; and, for the sake of accuracy, each order was sounded again below.

"Bring her around to north," said the commander.

When we submerged it had been a chilly day, with a peep of the sun every now and again. The weather had changed since we left our berth under the sea. The sky was overcast, and snow was falling. And this change in the weather had taken place while the captain had been accomplishing one of Jules Verne's dreams.

We sped farther out to sea; this time on the qui vive for enemy craft. But the enemy is careful not to give the British submarine much of a chance at his warships, only sneaking out occasionally under cover of darkness with a couple of destroyers. Nevertheless, John Bull's diving boats are ever on the alert; and the man with whom I went under the North Sea had performed deeds of daring which never involved the sinking of a neutral vessel or of endangering the life of a non-belligerent.

It was the time for luncheon. Luncheon! You get an idea that the life aboard a submarine is not all sunshine and white uniforms when you see the berth for the commander and his chief officer. They are just a couple of shelves, and are not used very often at that. It was explained to me that when you are running a submarine you do not go in much for sleep. Luncheon consisted of a cup of coffee and a piece of canned beef on a stale slice of bread. Tinned food is about all that can be used aboard a submarine. It does not take up much room, and it requires little in the way of cooking utensils. We were still having our luncheon below when we dived again, so for the first time in my life I found myself having a meal under the sea.

It was hours afterwards that we slipped into the darkened harbour and found the mother ship, where the officers enjoy some of the real comforts of life.

"Have a Pandora cocktail?" asked my captain.