"I'll try," he added. "We can but hope for the best. But now we must first get rid of these."
He pointed to the late kapitan and unter-leutnant of U 247.
"Shoot them," suggested the revengeful Krauss.
"Too easy a death," objected Furst. "We'll toss them overboard."
Some of the men moved aft to carry out the suggestion, but Furst called on them to stand by.
"Cast off those lashings," he ordered, with a grim laugh. "We'll give them a chance to swim for it. The nearest land is only about two hundred miles away. It will give them time to think over things. Start up those motors again and get way on her."
The men obeyed promptly. The idea of seeing their former officers struggling for life "in the ditch" appealed to their innate cruelty. After all, they argued, they were only revenging themselves upon two tyrants who had shown no mercy to the crews of British merchant vessels they had sunk.
Von Loringhoven squealed like a stuck pig when he saw one of the seamen advancing with a drawn knife. With a couple of deft cuts the unter-leutnant's bonds were severed. Two brawny men seized him by arms and legs and with a swinging heave tossed him over the side into the water.
Von Preugfeld, cursing, imploring and struggling, shared the same fate, his exit watched by all the hands on deck save one, who, evidently lacking the nerve to witness the tragedy, had stepped unobserved to the other side of the conning-tower.
Then, increasing her speed to twelve knots, U 247 turned eight degrees to port and headed for the distant shore of Germany, leaving von Preugfeld and his subordinate struggling for life in the cold waters of the North Sea.