‘Stand by, sir,’ Seagrave called out. ‘All ready, sir.’
‘When I fire dive to 60 feet,’ continued Raymond. ‘Up periscope.’
The moment had come once more, and the eyes of the boat were glued to gauges and meters. The log ticked on, and the repeater-compass clicked to itself as the seconds went by. Somewhere forward a man sneezed, and the sound broke the tension like the crack of a pistol.
‘Keep her at her depth. Steady helm now. Sixty feet. Fire!...’
A few seconds tense waiting, while the boat dived down into the safer regions. Boyd was holding the stop-watch and counting the seconds mechanically.
‘Hard-a-port,’ said Raymond. ‘Steer’....
Booooooom. A muffled explosion right ahead drowned all other sounds and shook ‘123’ till she rocked like a trawler in a sea way. Then the helm went over and she steadied on her new course.
‘Thirty-five seconds, sir,’ said Boyd, snapping to the watch.
‘Got him!’ exulted Raymond, as his boat broke into one explosive grin. ‘Keep her at 60 feet and steer N.W. for the present.’
Then Seagrave came aft, his duty done, and there being nothing else that could affect the safety of the boat, the crew fell out from diving stations and the officers opened the ceremonial and only bottle of champagne.