Once out into the bay, I asked the second in command just what we were up to. The second in command was a well knit youngster with the coolest, most resolute blue eyes it has ever been my fortune to see.
"We're going to take shots at a British submarine and then she's going to have a try at us. We don't really fire torpedoes—but manoeuvre for a position. Three shots apiece. There she is now, running on the surface. Just as soon as we get out to deep water we'll submerge and go for her. Great practice."
A British submarine, somewhat larger than our American boat, was running down the bay, pushing curious little waves of water ahead of her. Several men stood on her deck.
"Nice boat, isn't she? Her captain's a great scout. About two months ago a patrol boat shot off his periscope after he made it reasonably clear he wasn't a Hun. You ought to hear him tell about it. Especially his opinion of patrol boat captains. Great command of language. Bully fellow, born submarine man."
"I meant to ask you if you weren't sometimes mistaken for a German," I said.
"Yes, it happens," he answered coolly. "You haven't seen Smithie yet, have you? Guess he was away when you came. A bunch of destroyers almost murdered him last month. He's come the nearest to kissing himself good-bye of any of us. Going to dive now, time to get under."
Once more down the steel ladder. I was getting used to it. The handful of sailors who had been on deck waited for us to pass. Within, the strong, somewhat peppery smell of hot oil from the Diesel engines floated, and there was to be heard a hard, powerful knocking-spitting sound from the same source. The hatch cover was secured, a listener might have heard a steely thump and a grind as it closed. Men stood calmly by the depth gauges and the valves. Not being a "crash dive," the feat of getting under was accomplished quietly, accomplished with no more fracas than accompanies the running of a motor car up to a door. One instant we were on the surface, the next instant we were under, and the lean black arrow on the broad moon-faced depth gauge was beginning to creep from ten to fifteen, from fifteen to twenty, from twenty to twenty-five.... The clatter of the Diesel engine had ceased; in its place rose a low hum. And of course there was no alteration of light, nothing but that steady electric glow on those cold, clean bulging walls.
"What's the programme, now?"
"We are going down the bay a bit, put up our periscope, pick up the Britisher, and fire an imaginary tin fish at him. After each shot, we come to the surface for an instant to let him know we've had our turn."
"What depth are we now?"