The Leutnant muttered an oath.
"And how is business?" asked Ramblethorne, with a view of distracting the officer's thoughts from the shortage of fuel.
The Leutnant muttered another oath.
"Bad!" he replied savagely. "Only one wretched little tramp steamer, which we fell in with about twenty miles from the Stacks. She gave us a run for our money, but we had her at last. Even then she tried to ram us. One has to be most cautious also. These accursed English have been far too active with their new-fangled contrivances. We called up U71 early this morning. She replied. Again at noon we called her, but there was no reply. U70 we have lost all touch with since Monday, yet she was under orders to assist in the blockade of the Bristol Channel until we, as senior unterseeboot, gave instructions to return to Wilhelmshaven."
"Lost, I suppose," remarked Ramblethorne.
The Leutnant had walked to a distance of nearly ten yards from his men, who were drawn up in military order awaiting their officer's commands.
He lowered his voice.
"Although I am sorry to say it," he declared, "I am afraid she has gone too. Our losses are not only serious—they are appalling. Submarine work is now a continual nightmare. We do our duty, but before long, if we are sufficiently fortunate to escape the toils that these English cast about us, we shall all be physical wrecks."
The man's agitation increased as he spoke. Obviously he was labouring under a severe strain.
"And this petrol?" he asked anxiously. "What quantity?"