With lowered periscope, he sees nothing that goes on above him on the sea, and like a blind man the boat feels its way through the green flood. Every possible event becomes a subject of conjecture. Will the fellow continue on the same course? Has he seen our periscope in the second it was exposed, and is he running away from us? Or, on the contrary, having seen us, will he put on full steam and try to run us down with a fatal death stroke from his prow?
At such an instant of high nervous tension, I have caught myself giving superfluous orders to let myself relax, and yet I knew that every man was at his post, fully conscious that his own safety, the safety of the whole boat, and the honor of the Fatherland were all at stake, and dependent on his individual effort. I knew, of course, that each fine fellow, down in the machinery room or at the torpedo tubes, had done his very best, and that all his thoughts were centered like mine in keen expectancy on the firing of our first torpedo—the eel as we call it, guarded with so much love and care—which would speed along accompanied by our warmest wishes. We give nicknames to our torpedoes, mostly feminine names: side by side below lie "the fat Bertha," "the yellow Mary," and "the shining Emma," and these ladies expected to be treated, like all ladies, with the tenderest care and courtesy.
Now comes the announcement from the torpedo officer, "The torpedoes are cleared for firing." He stands with a firm hand awaiting the signal from his commander to permit the torpedo to drive ahead against the hated, but unconscious adversary, and to bore its way with a loud report deep into the great steel flank.
Once again the periscope springs for an instant to the surface and then glides back into the protecting body of the turret. The captain exclaims, "We are at them!" and the news spreads like wildfire through the crew. He gives a last rapid order to straighten the course of the boat. The torpedo officer announces, "Torpedo ready"—and the captain, after one quick glance through the periscope, as it slides back into its sheath, immediately shouts, "Fire!"
Even without the prescribed announcement from the torpedo officer that the torpedo had been set off, every one knows that it is speeding ahead, and for a few seconds we remain in anxious suspense, until a dull report provokes throughout our boat loud cheers for Kaiser and for Empire, and by this report we know that "the fat Bertha" has reached unhindered her destination. Radiant with joy, the commander breathes a sigh of relief, and he does not check the young sailor at the wheel, who seeks to grasp his hand and murmur his fervent congratulations. But congratulations must be postponed until we ascertain that our success is complete.
And once again the periscope runs up towards the laughing daylight, while the commander in happy but earnest tones utters the reassuring words, "The ship is sinking, further torpedoes can be spared." He then permits the gratified torpedo officer, who stands by his side, a quick glance through the periscope to verify the result of his own efficiency. It is chiefly owing to the care of the personnel of the torpedo squad, that the torpedoes are maintained in such perfect condition and that their aim is so correct; and to them is due in great part the success of our attack.
The commander and his officer exchange a knowing look, for they have seen the enemy's ship heavily listing to one side, where the water is rushing into the gaping wound, and soon she must capsize. They see her crew hastily lowering the life boats—their only means of escape—and this is a sufficient proof of our victory. We can depart now in all security. Concealing our presence, we plunge and vanish beneath the waters; having reached a certain distance, we stop to make sure that our victim lies at the bottom of the ocean. We behold the waves playing gently and smoothly as before over the cold, watery grave of the once proud ship and we hasten away from the scene of our triumph.
Copyright by Underwood & Underwood, N.Y.