The U-boat arose, dripping, rocking drunkenly, on an uneven keel, her stern down and her sharp bow well out of water, and through the gaping hole amidship crawled men. One—two—three—and still they came, arms upheld in token of surrender, feet slipping on the wet, slanting deck. One fell, clutching wildly at the air, and disappeared into the water. He came up again and found a hold on something and clung there. None offered to help him back. The deck was lined with the Germans now and more were fighting at the torn hatchway. The Gyandotte slowed and swung nearer. Across the silence came, faintly, confused cries.
“‘Kamerad!’” muttered a shellman disgustedly. “I’d ‘kamerad’ the swine if I had my way!”
Over went the boats while the cruiser, with propellers idle, sidled closer through the leaping waves. The submarine’s bow rose higher and higher and it was evident that she would soon go down stern-first. Some of those on the deck, jostled by their companions, slid off into the water. Others deliberately plunged in and began to swim toward the battleship. From Number Four gun port they saw the boats halving the distance.
“I’d let ’em swim,” said Garey. “They’ve all got life-vests on, every one of ’em.”
“Every Hun of them,” corrected Tip softly. He plucked at Mart’s sleeve. “Let’s go topside and have a look.”
One of the small boats was pulling the Germans from the water, while the other went on toward the submarine on which some ten or a dozen men still maintained a precarious foothold on the forward deck. The numbers on the bow were easily read now: “U C 46”; and it was possible to pick out the officers by the tarnished gold braid on sleeves and caps. The Gyandotte’s propellers churned and the cruiser stopped and swung her bow to starboard. Signals were fluttering to the Antietam, promising speedy assistance. The small boats were coming back, loaded to the water’s edge. Number Four’s crew leaned out and gazed curiously down at the prisoners as they passed toward the boom. A sorry, dejected looking lot they were, thought Nelson. The commander, a tall, yellow-bearded man, was talking to the ensign in charge of the boat, smiling faintly as he gazed up toward the deck. The second boat, filled with dripping men who had been pulled out of the sea, passed next. On the faces of the sailors was a vague terror as they, too, looked apprehensively upward.
“They’re expecting to be shot, I suppose,” said Jennings. “Well, they deserve it, but they won’t be. They’ll have a nice easy life of it until the war’s over. And plenty to eat, too, and, judging by the looks of ’em now, that’s something that’ll be welcome.”
Nelson, gazing down, felt a tinge of compassion for the captives. They looked so hopelessly resigned to the fate they imagined awaited them. One moon-faced fellow had the temerity to smile up at the clustered rail, but the others scowled sullenly. In the middle of the boat one taller than the rest sat with head dropped on his hands, the picture of dejection.
“Secure!” came the command over the control, and Nelson and the others set about washing and oiling the bore and setting the gun in order. Meanwhile the fire and rescue signal had been given and the Gyandotte, turning her back on the sinking submarine, approached the merchantman. The fire and rescue party pulled around to the further side, out of the low-hanging smoke, and disappeared from sight. When the smoke lifted momentarily the Antietam showed herself a smart-looking freighter of some six thousand tons. But the German shells had worked sad havoc. Her decks were littered and both stacks were gashed by shrapnel. At least a dozen shots had taken effect on her hull and she was badly down by the head. It was half an hour before Number Four gun was secured and Nelson was free to return to the main deck to see what was going on. He found Martin and Tip there, and, grimy and oil-stained as he was, stopped for a moment’s talk by the rail.