The two six-inch guns mounted on U 247 were quickly manned. The glistening, well-oiled breech-blocks were flung open, and the metal cylinders with their deadly steel shells were thrust home. For a brief instant the gun-layers lingered over their sights, training the weapons upon an invisible target roughly five miles off.
"Open fire!" ordered von Preugfeld in a strained, harsh voice.
Both guns barked almost simultaneously, stabbing the foggy night with long tongues of dark red flame. Even as the U-boat heeled under the recoil the shrill whine of the projectile could be distinctly heard, followed by the distant crashes of the exploding shells.
"Hit something," observed von Loringhoven. "Let us hope that the objective was worth hitting."
"Carry on!" shouted the kapitan. "Twelve rounds each gun, and be sharp about it."
The required number of rounds did not take long. The German gunners were working in feverish haste, fearful lest the tip-and-run bombardment would bring swift retribution in its wake in the shape of a flotilla of destroyers.
Directly the last shell case had been ejected and passed below—for brass was worth almost its weight in silver to the German military and naval authorities—the guns were secured and the crews returned to diving stations.
Pausing only to listen intently for sounds of approaching vessels, von Preugfeld disappeared through the conning-tower hatchway. The metal fastening clanged into its appointed place, the ballast tanks were flooded and U 247 submerged to thirty metres.
For the next hour she proceeded warily, until her kapitan deemed it safe to rise to the surface. The engines were stopped, and as soon as the U-boat floated just awash the officers went on deck to listen.
"Petrol engine!" exclaimed von Loringhoven, as the noisy exhaust beats of an internal combustion engine were plainly audible although at a considerable distance.