So intent was the submarine commander upon his prey, with one eye on the hospital ship and another on the horizon, watching for the patrol boats, which he knew would be sure to return, that he had even got his deck-gun to work, and was firing rapidly at the Galicia, when to his dismay he heard, just over his head, the whir-r-r-r-r of the aeroplane, as Dastral started his engine again.
"Mein Gott, was ist das?" he cried.
"Ach, Himmel, but we are lost!" came the cry from the gunners and the ober-lieutenant.
"Dachshunds!--you verdomt fools, turn the gun on the aeroplane!" yelled the irate commander, but he realised that he had lost the game.
Nearer and nearer came that dreaded enemy, with its angry buzz, till but a hundred feet above the broad, whale-like back of the submarine, for Dastral, having but the two twenty-pound bombs in his carrier, determined not to miss his chance.
"Be careful, Jock!" he shouted. "Drop it right on her conning-tower. Take no risks."
"Right-o, old fellow!" Jock had replied, his hand on the bomb release. "She's giving us shrapnel, though. Look out!"
"Spit . . . Bang! Spit . . . Bang!" came the bursting shrapnel from the quick-firing gun on the deck of the submarine, and a shot hitting the left aileron of the warplane, just as the observer was releasing the first bomb, caused her to roll and bank so much that the bomb fell into the sea, just a few inches from the starboard beam of the boat.
"Great heavens, you've missed him!" shouted Dastral, as the bomb, which was fitted with a contact fuse, sank down harmlessly into the sea.
Jock bit his lips, which were white with anger at his failure, and placed his hand once more on the bomb release. It was his last bomb. If they failed this time they were done, for already they had lost several struts and wires, and the planes had been holed in a score of places.