Below in the engine-room I hear the clang of the telegraph, and the growing mutter of the engines as we start to draw away from the coast. The whistle sounds for balloon stations, and I hurry along the deck and down a ladder to my place. The winch is pulling the balloon down as fast as it can, and every now and then above its tumult we hear the long whine and burst of a shell, whose explosion we cannot see owing to the high canvas screens which shut us off from a view of the sea. It is a most unpleasant experience, for the boat is only a small 4000-ton tramp steamer, with the thinnest of decks, and it is loaded with cylinders of compressed gas, with petrol, and with shells, and there is a "muse" balloon full of gas in the hold beneath the forward deck as well. The effect of a shell-burst on the boat will be at least pyrotechnical, and probably very fatal. At last the balloon is down on the deck, the basket is released, the "bagging down" operation is completed, and the ship steams full speed out of range of the hostile artillery.
Now for a time we lie off the long golden beaches of Suvla Bay with the dark orchards behind it, beyond which the slim white minarets rise from among the hills. It is the hot drowsy hour of noon. Four or five transports lie near us, while the inevitable trawlers in couples, with noses cocked perkily in the air, sweep the water slowly for mines. Behind us lies the grey shadow of Imbros in the distance. From the mainland comes the occasional dull sound of shell fire, while the crackle of musketry rises and falls as though on a gusty wind.
We sit on the poop under an awning to obtain a little protection from the fierce heat of the sun. Around us lies the calm deep blue water. A few people talk; now and again the daylight signalling-lamp clatters on the bridge: it is an hour of absolute peace.
Suddenly a great tension sweeps over the crowd of men on the deck. Every face changes its expression from utter tranquillity to absolute amazement and apprehension.
"Look!" says some one.
There, lying terribly clear on the rich blue of the sea, is a thin creamy ribbon of foam running from a point a mile or so away right to the middle of the ship. For a second I realise that it is the track of a torpedo, and I stiffen myself to receive the explosion. Nothing happens. I realise at once that the danger is past, though it seems incredible that we have not been struck. The gun on the forecastle barks out twice, and looking over to the other side of the ship I see two columns of spray leap out of the water near a round patch of white foam, from which a thin white ribbon also runs to the side of the ship. We suddenly understand what has taken place. A submarine has fired a torpedo at us, point-blank, from scarcely twenty yards away; it has passed right under the engine-room, and gone on another mile or so till its face is extended. The first ribbon we saw was the track of the torpedo going away from us.
At once the hooter wails out the signal, "abandon ship stations," and the "attacked by submarine" flag is hoisted at the mast. The engine-room telegraph sounds frantically. The ship begins to move forward, and slowly passes the long white spear of death which struck into us, and yet left us miraculously untouched. I can hardly take my amazed eye away from it. So uncanny and awe-inspiring is it, laid across the dark and placid blue of the sea, which sparkles innocently under the cloudless sky of an Ægean June.
The sound of our hooter and the sight of our flag, however, has wakened the drowsy fleet to a furious activity. As I begin to adjust the life-belt round my shoulders, in obedience to the "abandon ship stations" orders, I see the transports gather speed as they make for Mudros Bay in great zigzags. The admiral's yacht does not trouble about twisting or turning to avoid the hidden menace, but ploughs at top speed in a straight line for safety. The destroyers rush round in frantic circles, the other balloon ship, the Hector, begins to steam rapidly, while its balloon is still in the air, and it can be seen with what speed the yellow gas-bag is being jerked down by the straining winch. The sea is now a scene of furious energy. The white streak of foam across the water has broken the drowsy moontide spell; in front of every bow is a feather of spray, behind each stern a white zigzag wake. Every ship is pointed one way—towards the welcoming boom of Imbros.
Suddenly I hear a brief exclamation.
"Look at that boat! Yes! By Gaba Tepe! It's been hit. It's the Triumph, isn't it? It looks like it!"