Commander Cooper was in no indecent hurry, but he knew what he had to do. He must get down, or be put down. Moreover, he must get well down; for the water was very clear, and the sea flat calm, without a ripple. After a last look at the charging squadron he dived to ninety feet, changing his course to 185°.
His troubles began at once: the helm was reported jammed—it was amidships. He sent the first-lieutenant to inspect, the report was that the gear was all correct—the jamming seemed to be due to the tightening of the rudder-post gland, either from external pressure, or from some distortion of the after compartment of the ship. In any case, nothing could be done for the moment, and there were plenty of distractions coming. At 8.37 the sound of propellers was recorded on the hydrophone—the destroyers were passing from port to starboard overhead, like hounds abreast trying to pick up a scent.
One of them, must have thought she had hit it off, for a tremendous explosion shook the submarine—a depth-charge had been dropped not far behind her, shaking her stern violently. In her steering flat, the first-lieutenant and his men were lifted bodily off their feet. The commander continued his dive, and to his great comfort took bottom at 125 feet on the gauge.
Within three minutes of the first explosion, a second one followed. It was equally violent, and to Commander Cooper appeared even louder; but he told himself that this effect was probably due to the relative position of the bomb, which had apparently detonated in a line with the conning-tower. As he was himself in the control-room, in the centre of the ship, the explosion would naturally sound louder, being on the starboard beam instead of aft.
The boat was well built, and the commander had perfect confidence in her. This was not his first experience of the kind. Exactly a year before, he had been out in the Cattegat in an E-boat and had met ‘a wrong un’—a Greif or Möwe, which had opened fire on him with four 6-inch guns at 2000 yards and straddled him at once. The boat had to dive as she was, in complete surface trim. Shot after shot fell close to her; she was shaken by explosives and struck by splinters. Finally a 6-inch shell came alongside and threw up a huge column of water which fell plump on the commander as he descended through the hatch. Part of it accompanied him down the ladder, but he had the presence of mind to draw the lid down behind him, and he and his boat lived to tell the tale. So he knew that a British submarine can stand a shock or two. But what made him really anxious was the question—which he hoped would occur to no one else on board—why did those two depth-charges fall so near one another: why did the enemy drop the second so close to the first? The horrible suspicion came into his mind that his position was being given away by something that he could only guess at—some noise or some escape of air bubbles or oil which was reaching the surface.
‘A huge column of water which fell plump on the commander.’
What was to be done? Nothing, but to lie closer than ever, and enjoy the calm of the man who has done all that is possible. The order was given to stop all motors, even the Sperry motor for running the gyro compass. All vent valves, and other possible leaking places, were inspected and reported tight.
Then came the third explosion, the most violent of all. Lights went out suddenly, and the crew—groping in darkness—thought that the end had come.
For a moment the ship seemed to be stunned; then the lights reappeared. They had not been injured, but the shock had thrown all the chopper-switches on the auxiliary switchboard to the ‘Off’ position. Not a trace of a leak could be discovered—the ship was alive still, and without a mortal wound. In her commander’s judgment it would take a direct hit, or something very near it, to kill her.