Boat for boat the "Livingstone" and her consorts were vastly superior to the German craft. An action would result in annihilation of the enemy unless the element of luck favoured the weaker side. But it was not a time for fight. The first mission of the British destroyers was to lure their foes, especially the supporting light-cruisers, well away from the sand-banks and shallow mined channels protected by the heavy guns of Borkum.
Round swung the "Livingstone," heeling outwards till her rail was almost awash: then steadying herself on her course, steamed due west. Although the after 4-in. gun was trained on the leading German boat, no order was given to fire. Shells began to hurtle past, as the foremost enemy vessel attempted to wing her foe. It was tantalizing for the "Livingstone" to be under fire with the knowledge that her armament could dominate that of her enemy, but forbearance was desirable: it was a part of the grim game.
Suddenly a terrific glare flashed before Terence's eyes, followed by an ear-splitting report. He was dimly conscious of clapping his left hand over his eyes and feeling blindly with his right for some support that was not forthcoming. His feet gave way under him, and he fell—not upon the slippery deck of the destroyer but into the sea.
It was in a sense fortunate that he fell in a huddled posture; had his body been rigid the shock on striking the surface from a craft travelling at close on thirty knots might have broken his back. Winded by the blow and the sudden immersion he sank, swallowing mouthfuls of salt water as he vainly gasped for breath.
After a seemingly interminable time he knew by the light filtering through the water that he was rising to the surface. Up he came, spluttering and gasping. His thick clothing still retained air and afforded a certain amount of buoyancy, enough to counteract the weight of his sea-boots.
He looked in the direction of the "Livingstone." She was by this time several hundred yards off and still running at a high speed. Even had his fall been noticed he knew that it would have been impossible for the destroyer to stop and pick him up. It was one of the grim realities of warfare. In the piping times of peace there would be a cry of "Man overboard," a rapid working of the engine-room telegraph, and a prompt backing and going easy astern of the engines, while the boat was being hastily lowered to effect a rescue. But now, although the loss of a man overboard was to be deplored it was the fortune of war. Under the circumstances no captain would hazard his ship in the presence of the enemy to save life.
Terence also knew that there was no chance of rescue by the German boats. For one thing it was an established fact that the disciples of "kultur" had never been credited since the declaration of hostilities with having saved a single British sailor, be he officer or man. Again, it was not to be expected that the German destroyers would cease in their efforts to overhaul a supposedly fugitive craft to pull one of the hated English out of the sea.
At a distance of about ten yards from the swimmer the leading German torpedo-boat passed. The "wash" wellnigh overwhelmed him, for by this time his clothes were becoming saturated and his limbs numbed by the cold. He was seen by several of the crew, most of whom regarded him with stolid indifference, while one or two openly jeered at him.
The desire for life was strong within the young sub. He realized that his case was hazardous in the extreme. More than likely cramp—the dreaded foe of the swimmer—would seize him; if not there would be a struggle for life until, numbed by the cold, he would sink through sheer inability to move his limbs. Yet he meant to fight strongly for his life.
"I must first get rid of my boots," he thought, at the same time ruefully reflecting that they were practically new, and had cost him a couple of guineas only a few days ago.