One late summer afternoon the American converted yacht Christabel was performing this duty for the British merchantman Danae, a vessel which had fallen eight miles behind her convoy, bound from La Pallice, France, to Brest. It was a beautiful evening; the weather was clear, the sea smooth, and there was not a breath of wind. Under such conditions a submarine could conceal its presence only with great difficulty; and at about 5.30 the lookout on the Christabel detected a wake, some six hundred yards on the port quarter. The Christabel started at full speed; the wake suddenly ceased, but a few splotches of oil were seen, and she was steered in the direction of this disturbance. A depth charge was dropped at the spot where the submarine ought to have been, but it evidently did not produce the slightest result. The Christabel rejoined the Danae, and the two went along peacefully for nearly four hours, when suddenly a periscope appeared about two hundred yards away, on the starboard side. Evidently this persistent German had been following the ships all that time, looking for a favourable opportunity to discharge his torpedo. That moment had now arrived; the submarine was at a distance where a carefully aimed shot meant certain destruction; the appearance of the periscope meant that the submarine was making observations in anticipation of delivering this shot. The Christabel started full speed for the wake of the periscope; this periscope itself disappeared under the water like a guilty thing, and a disturbance on the surface showed that the submarine was making frantic efforts to submerge. The destroyer dropped its depth charge, set to explode at seventy feet, its radio meantime sending signals broadcast for assistance. Immediately after the mushroom of water arose from this charge a secondary explosion was heard; this was a horrible and muffled sound coming from the deep, more powerful and more terrible than any that could have been caused by the destroyer's "ash can." An enormous volcano of water and all kinds of débris arose from the sea, half-way between the Christabel and the spot where it had dropped its charge. This secondary explosion shook the Christabel so violently that the officers thought at first that the ship had been seriously damaged, and a couple of men were knocked sprawling on the deck. As soon as the water subsided great masses of heavy black oil began rising to the surface, and completely splintered wood and other wreckage appeared. In a few minutes the sea, for a space many hundred yards in diameter, was covered with dead fish—about ten times as many, the officers reported, as could have been killed by the usual depth charge. The Christabel and the ship she was guarding started to rejoin the main convoy, entirely satisfied with the afternoon's work. Indeed, they had good reason to be; a day or two afterward a battered submarine, the U C-56, crept painfully into the harbour of Santander, Spain; it was the boat which had had such an exciting contest with the Christabel. She was injured beyond the possibility of repair; besides, the Spanish Government interned her for "the duration of the war"; so that for all practical purposes the vessel was as good as sunk.

V

Discouraging as was this business of hunting an invisible foe, events occasionally happened with all the unexpectedness of real drama. For the greater part of the time the destroyers were engaged in battle with oil slicks, wakes, tide rips, streaks of suds, and suspicious disturbances on the water; yet now and then there were engagements with actual boats and flesh and blood human beings. To spend weeks at sea with no foe more substantial than an occasional foamy excrescence on the surface was the fate of most sailormen in this war; yet a few exciting moments, when they finally came, more than compensated for long periods of monotony.

One afternoon in November, 1917, an American destroyer division, commanded by Commander Frank Berrien, with the Nicholson as its flagship, put out of Queenstown on the usual mission of taking a westbound convoy to its rendezvous and bringing in one that was bound for British ports. This outward convoy was the "O Q 20" and consisted of eight fine ships. After the usual preliminary scoutings the vessels passed through the net in single file, sailed about ten miles to sea, and began to take up the stipulated formation, four columns of two ships each. The destroyers were moving around; they were even mingling in the convoy, carrying messages and giving instructions; by a quarter past four all the ships had attained their assigned positions, except one, the René, which was closing up to its place as the rear ship of the first column. Meanwhile, the destroyer Fanning was steaming rapidly to its post on the rear flank. Suddenly there came a cry from the bridge of the Fanning, where Coxswain David D. Loomis was on lookout:

"Periscope!"

Off the starboard side of the Fanning, glistening in the smooth water, a periscope of the "finger" variety, one so small that it could usually elude all but the sharpest eyes, had darted for a few seconds above the surface and had then just as suddenly disappeared. Almost directly ahead lay the Welshman, a splendid British merchant ship; the periscope was so close that a torpedo would almost inevitably have hit this vessel in the engine-room. The haste with which the German had withdrawn his periscope, after taking a hurried glance around, was easily explained; for his lens had revealed not only this tempting bait, but the destroyer Fanning close aboard and bearing down on him. Under these circumstances it was not surprising that no torpedo was fired; it was clearly military wisdom to beat a quick retreat rather than attempt to attack the merchantman. Lieut. Walter S. Henry, who was the officer of the deck, acted with the most commendable despatch. It is not the simplest thing, even when the submarine is so obviously located as this one apparently was, to reach the spot accurately.

The destroyer has to make a wide and rapid turn, and there is every danger, in making this manœuvre, that the location will be missed. Subsequent events disclosed that the Fanning was turned with the utmost accuracy. As the ship darted by the spot at which the periscope had been sighted, a depth charge went over the stern, and exploded so violently that the main generator of the Fanning herself was temporarily disabled. Meanwhile the Nicholson had dashed through the convoy, made a rapid detour to the left, and dropped another depth charge a short distance ahead of the Fanning.

The disturbances made on the water by these "ash cans" gradually subsided; to all outward appearances the submarine had escaped unharmed. The Fanning and the Nicholson completed their circles and came back to the danger spot, the officers and crew eagerly scanning the surface for the usual oil patch and air bubbles, even hoping for a few pieces of wreckage—those splintered remnants of the submarine's wooden deck that almost invariably indicated a considerable amount of damage. But none of these evidences of success, or half-success, rose to the surface; for ten or fifteen minutes everything was as quiet as the grave. Then something happened which occurred only a few times in this strange war. The stern of a submarine appeared out of the water, tilted at about thirty degrees, clearly revealing its ugly torpedo tubes. Then came the conning-tower and finally the entire boat, the whole hull taking its usual position on the surface as neatly and unconcernedly as though no enemies were near. So far as could be seen the U-boat was in perfect condition. Its hull looked intact, showing not the slightest indication of injury; the astonished officers and men on the destroyers could easily understand now why no oil or wreckage had risen to the top, for the U-58—they could now see this inscription plainly painted on the conning-tower—was not leaking, and the deck showed no signs of having come into contact even remotely with a depth charge. The Fanning and the Nicholson began firing shells at the unexpected visitant, and the Nicholson extended an additional welcome in the form of a hastily dropped "ash can."

Suddenly the conning-tower of the submarine opened and out popped the rotund face and well-fed form of Kapitän-Leutnant Gustav Amberger, of the Imperial German Navy. The two arms of the Herr Kapitän immediately shot heavenward and the Americans on the destroyers could hear certain guttural ejaculations:

"Kamerad! Kamerad!"