The men in the central below me were working away in silent haste. All the exhausts were opened wide, the compressed air hissed from the tanks—the diving vents were chanting in all possible keys.
I stood with my lips pressed together and stared out of the turret window upon the tossing sea, and watched for the first sign of our going down. But our deck remained still visible and we were continually lifted into the air by some wave. There was not a moment to be lost.
I ordered the diving rudder to be set still more sharply and both engines to drive ahead with full power.
The whole vessel quivered and thrilled under the increased pressure of the engines and made several leaps. She staggered about in the furious seas—but still seemed loath to leave the surface. Then she gave a jerk and her bows suddenly dipped and cut into the flood. She began to sink into the depths at an ever-increasing angle. The coming daylight vanished from the windows of the turret, the manometer in rapid succession showed 2—3—6—10 meters' depth. But the angle of the boat also began to increase.
We staggered about, leaned back, slipped off our feet. We then lost our footing entirely—for the floor of the Deutschland slanted sharply toward the front. I was just able to catch hold of the ocular or eye-piece of the periscope. Down in the central the men were hanging on to the hand-wheels of the diving rudder. A few terrible seconds passed thus.
We had not yet seized the full significance of this new situation when there came a severe shock. We were hurled to the floor and everything that was not fastened down went flying in all directions.
We found ourselves in the queerest attitudes—and stared into one another's faces. There was a grim silence for a moment, then First Officer Krapohl remarked dryly:
"Well, we seem to have arrived!"
This broke the ghastly tension.
We were all rather pale around the gills, but at once tried to get our bearings.