"Mr. Jones!" sang out Captain Meredith, "let her have it in the neck."
The warrant-officer signed to a couple of hands. Deftly and cautiously, the howitzers were loaded with their deadly depth-charges and trained to extreme elevations.
Both weapons were discharged simultaneously. The missiles rose with apparent slowness. Viewed from the bridge, they looked like enormous cricket-balls being lobbed by a titanic hand. Describing parabolic curves, they struck the water almost vertically—one on either side and about ten yards from the periscope. There was a double splash. The tip of the periscope was hidden in spray, but still there was no explosion. The depth-charges had to sink to a distance of thirty feet before they were automatically detonated.
Right aft, the Gunner was standing knee-deep in water, with a hand over his eyes as he watched. In vain the Skipper shouted to him to take cover. His interest in what was about to take place had rendered him deaf to every other sound.
Suddenly there was a stupendous upheaval. Almost the entire length of the submarine was lifted clear of the agitated sea, but only for a few brief moments. Completely torn asunder, the doomed craft disappeared from view, amidst a pall of smoke and under a rapidly increasing circle of oil and charred débris.
A wave of foaming water swept over the now submerged stern of the decoy-ship, hurling the zealous Gunner Jones against the dummy steering wheel.
The Complex's stem rose sullenly, until the whole of her forefoot showed clear. She was making her last plunge. The concussion of the exploding depth-charges, while they had sent her foe to her doom, had also hastened her parting.
"Abandon ship—all hands!" shouted the Old Man.