We should be in to–night, then for my little Zoe!
But I must record what we have done. Already I am getting much pleasure from reading my diary. Strange how it amuses one to see little bits of oneself on paper, and the less garnished and franker the truths the more entertaining it is.
The hours here are so long and boring at times that I feel I want to talk intimately with someone. Failing Zoe I turn to my notebooks.
The first steamer we sighted raised high hopes, at least her smoke did, for we saw enough smoke on the horizon to make us think we were to see the Grand Fleet, and we promptly dived. We cruised towards her for about half an hour, and then hung about where we were, as we found that her course would take the ship close to us.
As the situation developed, Alten, who was up in the conning tower at the "A" periscope, gave us a certain amount of information, and we gathered that all this smoke was pouring out of the pipe–stem tunnel of a wretched little English tramp.
I found it most irritating, standing in the control room (my action station) and not knowing what was going on.
There is only one good job in a submarine and that is the Captain's. He knows and decides everything. The rest of us are in his hands and take things on trust. I object on principle to my life being held in Alten's hands. It is all very well for the crew, for, to start with, they have no imagination, and to most of them their mental horizon stops at the walls of the boat. Secondly, they have the consolation of mechanical activities; they make and break switches and open and close valves—they work with their hands. An officer has imagination, and only works with his head.
As we attacked the steamer, all one heard was murmurs from Alten, such as: "Raise!""Lower!""Take her down to ten metres!""Half speed!""Slow!""Bring her up to five metres!""Raise!""Lower!"
I endeavoured to simulate an air of unconcern which I was far from feeling.
Not that I was a prey to physical fear; I flatter myself it is so far unknown to me, and there was no great danger, but simply that I longed to know what was happening. At length I heard the welcome order:
"Starboard tube. Stand by!"
Which was followed almost immediately by the order: "Fire!"
There was a kind of coughing grunt, and the starboard torpedo proceeded on its errand of destruction.
Every ear was strained for the sound of the explosion, but all we were vouchsafed was a torrent of blasphemy from Alten.
The torpedo had jumped clean out of the water a hundred yards short of the steamer, and had then evidently dived under the ship; so I gathered later when Alten had calmed down somewhat. We were about to surface and give her the gun, when luckily Alten took a good sweep round with the skyscraper and discovered one of those wretched little airships about a mile away, coming towards the steamer, which was wailing piteously, on her syren.
As the chart showed forty metres we decided to bottom and have lunch.
Over lunch we discussed the misadventure. Alten was loud in his curses of Tanzerman (the torpedo lieutenant at Bruges), from whom he had got the torpedo in guaranteed good condition only forty–eight hours before we sailed. He launched forth into a tirade against the torpedo staff at Bruges, and, warming to his subject, he roundly abused the whole of the depot personnel, whom he stigmatized as a set of hard–drinking, shore–loafing ruffians, who were incapable of realizing that they existed for the benefit of the boats' personnel and "material."
