“Signal coming, sir, to commanding officer of the ‘Logan,’” reported the signalman on the destroyer’s bridge.
“‘Logan’ will drop out of line and hunt enemy submarines on commanding officer’s judgment,” Dave Darrin read.
“That’s because of our record yesterday,” Dan Dalzell chuckled. “We are looked upon as the star performers of the flotilla.”
“We’ll do our best to be the stars again to-day,” Dave confided to his chum after he had given his orders.
With a rush and roar the destroyer headed northward, nor did Darrin come about until he was something like fifteen hundred yards away from the troopship line.
“Submarines usually try for hits at from six hundred to a thousand yards,” he explained to Dalzell, as the racing craft hurried on her way. “A German commander, with his eyes on the transports, might not think to turn his periscope in the opposite direction at a time like this.”
“But his sound-detecting device will tell him where we are,” Dan hinted.
“Not with all the gun-fire and the noise of so many hurrying craft,” Dave answered. “Wait and see.”
Phelps was sent to join the two seamen forward. From that position he could see any torpedo trail that started between the “Logan’s” position and the transport fleet. Within less than five minutes Phelps detected a white line of seething foam, and Dave steered his ship straight to the spot where the Hun craft was believed to be.
“Fire as fast as you can, Mr. Phelps,” was the order Darrin transmitted.