And now a strange and wonderful time followed. Day after day, out into the bays, down into the depths. We practised in all weathers and under all conditions.

Every man of the chosen crew realised the task that lay before us. It meant acquiring the art of managing this most delicate and complicated vessel, the last word in bold and skilful construction. It meant learning to know and understand that marvellous wonder-work of modern shipbuilding—a submarine. We had to be in a position to sway, according to our will, this heavy mass of nearly 2000 tons, so that she should obey the least pressure of the rudder, so that she should twist and manoeuvre like a torpedo-boat, so that she should rise and sink in the water like a dirigible in the air.

It meant probing the trustworthiness of the unyielding steel body, the weight and pliability of her mighty machinery; getting on the track of her imperfections or tricks, and coaxing from her the secrets of her mobility and fantastic fish nature.

A submarine is as full of humours as a woman, and as tricky as a racehorse. She is as sober as a tramp-steamer, and as trustworthy as a tug. She has good qualities and—not good. She can be pliant as a racing yacht and as pig-headed as a mule. And she only obeys him who knows her down to her smallest technicalities.

In this spirit we practised for weeks, round about, above and below water. We studied our boat, and tried not only to become familiar with all her possibilities, but to penetrate into the inner mysteries of this nautical amphibian. And when we returned from the stillness of the bay to the ear-splitting noise of the riveting hammers and the restless hum of the dockyard, we would sit for hours with the constructors and exchange our experiences.

This practical testing gave rise to much stimulating groundwork for new plans and inventions.

It is difficult to express the high esteem I feel for the men of the dockyard at Kiel, or how much I owe to their co-operation. They were untiringly helpful in explaining and testing this wonderful product of their hands and brains, in all its peculiarities. On the very day of our departure the ingenious constructor of the "Deutschland," Over-Engineer Erbach, came out to our place of anchorage to make a last submerging test.

And at last the day of our departure arrived.

The "Deutschland" was loaded up. The valuable cargo lay well packed in its appointed place, the whole boat was once more overhauled and brought into careful trim.

We laid in provisions for the long journey, and at the last moment even cigars and—gramophone records were brought on board.

With these all our possible wants were securely provided for, and the "Deutschland" was ready for the voyage.

We were ready, too. The farewells from all our dear ones at home lay, God be thanked, behind us; there is always a nasty moment in connection with a cruise into the Unknown, which it is best to get over quickly.

The last to shake us by the hand were the men of the Germania dockyard.

Then the gangway is pulled up, the crew take up their stations, and I climb into the conning-tower.

The steam-tug lies beside us and takes over the hawsers. I call down to the engine-room, "Look out!" and raise my hand. The great moment has arrived.

"Cast off the aft hawsers!"

"They're off."

"Tow away, 'Charlotte'!" [1]

The engine telegraph on the stout little steam-tug sounds: the sturdy craft strains at the tow-ropes, and slowly the stern of our "Deutschland" is drawn away from her resting-place in the dock.

"Cast off the bow hawsers!"

"They are off."

And with a smack the last hawsers fall from the pier wall into the black, seething waters of the harbour.

Now we are off. I take up the speaking-tube to the control-room:

"Port engines half-speed astern!"

"Starboard engines slowly forward!"

"Rudder twenty starboard!" "Rudder lies twenty starboard."

Thus the replies from the engine-room come back promptly.

On the conning-tower where I stand next to the helmsman, in front of his little hand-wheel, one hardly feels the movement of the engines.

Only from the churned-up water that seethes foaming and dirty against the rounded body of the "Deutschland," quickly dispersed to starboard, is it possible to realise that the engines are working.

Slowly the big green whale's back twists and turns, lies first broadside on in the fairway, then slightly to port, then turns with the help of the tug once more to port and astern.

"Stop both engines!"

Slowly the boat moves slightly backwards, pulling at the tow-ropes in its backward movements like some primeval monster. A quick glance from the conning-tower over the trail of water and the pier walls. We have enough room to manoeuvre. The hawsers are cast off, and then both engines are set at half-speed with rudder to port. We turn once more to get well clear of the dock walls where a big grey battle cruiser is being finally equipped. Then I let the rudder lie amidships and order both engines "full steam ahead."

The stern begins to tremble in rhythmical vibration under the increased engine-power, the churned-up water rushes foaming from her sides—the journey begins. Faster and faster the "Deutschland" pushes her way through the dirty waters of the harbour, out into the bay. Our course lies next through the Kaiser Wilhelm Canal to the Weser, where the shipment of the cargo will be completed.

The ship's papers and express post are brought on board by the freighting officials in a special tug, and without any fuss, calmly and secretly the "Deutschland" starts on her remarkable voyage—the first submarine of the world, to whom blockades are unknown—out into the open sea, into the freedom of the ocean.