“Good luck,” said the girl.
. . . . .
The port look-out gripped the bridge-rail to steady himself, and stared out through the driving spray and the darkness as the destroyer thrashed her way down Channel. He was chosen for the trick because of his eyesight. “I gotter eye like a adjective ’awk,” Mr. Pettigrew was wont to admit in his more expansive moments, and none gainsaid him the length and breadth of the destroyer’s mess-deck. None gainsaid him on the bridge that night when suddenly he wheeled inboard and bawled at the full strength of his lungs:
“Objec’ on the port bow, sir!”
There was an instant’s pause; a confused shouting of orders, a vision of the coxswain struggling at the kicking wheel as the helm went over, and a man’s clear voice saying—“By God! we’ve got her!”
Then came the stunning shock of the impact, the grinding crash of blunt metal shearing metal, more shouts, faces seen white for an instant against the dark waters, something scraping past the side of the forecastle, and finally a dull explosion aft.
“Rammed a submarine and sunk the perisher!” shouted the yeoman in Mr. Pettigrew’s ear. “Wake up! what the ’ell’s up—are ye dazed?”
Mr. Pettigrew was considerably more dazed when he was sent for the following day in harbour by his captain. From force of custom on obeying such summonses, the ship’s black sheep removed his cap.[4]
“Put your damned cap on,” said the lieutenant-commander. Mr. Pettigrew replaced his cap. “Now shake hands.” Mr. Pettigrew shook hands. “Now go on leave.” Mr. Pettigrew obeyed.
. . . . .