It looked like a tiny fountain glittering in the sunlight.
Through the binoculars it showed up as a thin thread of water standing up all by itself in the middle of the grey, calm, misty sea.
Taking a quick bearing on the compass, I bumped Dickey out of the control-seat, and swung the head of the boat towards the fountain. I opened out the engines and shoved the nose down. Looking back, I saw that Cuckney had turned in behind me.
One minute passed, two minutes, four minutes. We had roared over six miles of sea, and still I could see the little fountain ahead.
Then I saw the submarine. She was a mile away—a big grey Fritz of the U-class, long flush deck rising toward the bows, conning-tower between bow and stern, two guns, one before and one aft of the conning-tower, and a straight stem. She was shoving through the water at top speed, about thirteen knots, and above her bow was the little fountain.
It was caused by a thread of water running up her straight stem and leaping into the air about five feet.
It glittered in the sun.
Two men were on the conning-tower, but they did not see or hear us coming. We were attacking up wind and down sun. We read part of her number, U 4?, but the second numeral was blurred.
Forty seconds after seeing the U-boat Dickey pulled the release lever and dropped one bomb. He threw up his arm. I banked over and looked down. The bomb had detonated on the starboard side half-way between the conning-tower and the stern.
The submarine heeled slowly over to port. She stopped in her own length and began to sink.