Fifteen hammock-enshrouded forms lay motionless at the after end of the deck. Bare-headed their messmates stood in silence as Sefton, with a peculiar catch in his usually firm voice, read the prayer appointed for the burial of those at sea. Then into the foam-flecked waves, the bodies of those conquerors even in death were consigned, to find an undisturbed resting-place fathoms deep on the bed of the North Sea.
It was no time for melancholy. At the word "Dismiss" the men trooped for'ard, for there was plenty of work to do, and, in the navy especially, hard but necessary work is rightly considered one of the best antidotes for grief.
Snatching at the opportunity to visit his chief, Sefton hurried below to the shattered ward-room, where Crosthwaite lay on a mattress that smelt abominably of cordite and the lingering odours of poison-gas. The lieutenant-commander had by this time recovered consciousness, and greeted Sefton with a bad attempt at a smile.
"We've kept our end up," he said feebly. "Think you'll get the old ship back to port?"
"I trust so," said the sub guardedly. "I'll do my level best."
"I know," assented Crosthwaite. "Still, you've a stiff job. I'll be on the bridge in another half an hour and give you a spell."
Sefton said nothing. He realized that many hours--nay, days--would pass before his chief would again assume command. Crosthwaite was quick to notice his subordinate's silence.
"Suppose I've had it pretty badly," he admitted reluctantly. "It was a rotten business getting knocked out at the critical time."
"Nothing much happened after that," explained Sefton. "We were out of it within twenty seconds from the time you were hit."
"Man alive!" protested Crosthwaite. "You're altogether wrong. For nearly ten minutes I was lying there quite conscious and watching you. You're a plucky fellow, old man."