Above the description of our return voyage I should like to put as a motto what the London Morning Post of 18th July wrote regarding the attitude of the English Government towards the "Deutschland."

"The 'Deutschland,' in view of her peculiar U-Boat qualities, will be considered as a war vessel, and be treated as such.

"The warships of the Allies will therefore make every effort to discover the boat outside American territorial waters, and to sink her without warning."

Thus ran a cablegram which reached America from London on the 19th July. Thus we ourselves read it in a copy of the Morning Post which was sent to us at the end of July. There was at least one advantage, that we knew exactly what we had to expect.

Never has the English point of view been so displayed in all its brutality.

We had no torpedo tubes, no guns on board, not the smallest means of attack. We had not even weapons of defence which are always allowed on every English merchant ship. The most powerful of the neutral states had moreover openly recognised the "Deutschland" as a mere trading vessel, and yet we were to be sunk without warning!

We knew, therefore, what lay before us.

It was already known that eight enemy warships with patrol boats and nets were waiting in front of Chesapeake Bay in order to attack us directly we quitted American territorial waters, and to blow us up like blind fish, with mines.

Foresight was therefore urgently impelled on us, and our only course was, with true U-Boat craftiness, to slip through somehow.

We remembered, moreover, how we had already once succeeded in getting the best of the English and French efforts. Our running of the English blockade in Europe had certainly been by no means a smooth pleasure trip.

Nothing had caused us greater amusement than the news of the delightful announcement made by Captain Gaunt of the English consulate in New York when the first rumour was heard of the voyage of a U-Boat to America. His reassuring words to the English public were: "It is impossible to send a U-Boat to America. And even if the Germans did send one we should soon catch her. A big submarine leaves a track of oil and machine dirt on the surface of the waters in her wake. Our fast cruisers would be able to follow these tracks and catch the boat for a dead certainty."

Captain Gaunt is the expert on affairs of navigation at the Consulate, and ought to know.

All we had to do, therefore, was to see to it that their second "catch" was as much of a "dead certainty" as the first.

At last the 1st of August arrived. We had taken a hearty leave everywhere, completed all formalities with the authorities, and were ready for sea and for our rendezvous with the gentlemen in front of the bay.

Our departure was delayed, as we were obliged to wait for the high tide, in order to get from the Patapsco River on which Baltimore is situated, across the intervening muddy bar out into Chesapeake Bay. The water rose very slowly during the day, as a north wind was blowing and prevented the tide in the long inlet from rising up quite as far as Baltimore.

We waited excitedly for the rising of the water, and at last, at five o'clock in the afternoon, the moment arrived. The ropes were cast off, the closely packed attendant boats made way, and the "Deutschland" pushed majestically off from the pier into the fairway. The tug "Timmins" ran alongside of us like a faithful sheep-dog, snarling at the many big and small boats full of reporters and cinema people, if they approached too closely.

There was nothing to fear. The harbour police boat from Baltimore had been very kindly lent us, and the Customs boat from Maryland had received instructions to accompany us as far as the boundary line of their beat permitted.

Hundreds of people stood on the banks of the Patapsco River, waving and cheering us incessantly as we departed, and in the harbour all the tugs hooted with the full blast of their sirens and hooters, while the steamers dipped their flags and tooted. It was an indescribable uproar. We knew as we travelled on that the thoughts and blessings of countless hearts throughout mighty America accompanied us, and anxiously awaited the moment which should bring them the certainty of our lucky escape out yonder.

As soon as we got into the fairway with the engines going at full speed, our attendants gradually fell behind. Even "Timmins" had enough to do to keep up with us. We noticed with pleasure how slowly all the American boats travelled; the cheers grew weaker and weaker, the number of boats ever smaller, and at last only the Customs' cutter remained. When towards seven o'clock she also dropped off, we should have been alone with "Timmins" but for one uncanny follower who was not so easy to shake off. She was a smart grey boat with pointed nose and flat short stern, a regular first-class racing boat which, so rumour said, had an 80 horse-power and could do her 22 knots. She appeared to have been hired during the last ten days by a man who paid the round sum of 200 dollars a day—by which it may be gathered how highly he valued this chance of a bit of sport in running a race with the "Deutschland."... By 10p.m. a fairly roughish sea had risen. The lights of the racing boat dropped more and more behind, and at grey dawn the following morning the sea was empty—the racer had turned back home.

In her place, however, a whole lot of fishing trawlers appeared ahead of us in the dim morning light, which made us fear that even here in neutral waters we might run into a regular trap.

Cheers and hand-waving from the vessels soon showed us our happy mistake; they were a party of American Press representatives who, together with a number of admirers and friends of the "Deutschland," had refused to miss the opportunity afforded by a night voyage of giving our boat a farewell greeting at a distance of some fifty miles from Baltimore.

One steamer after the other glided by, and the next morning by six o'clock we were in sufficiently free water to make our first submerging test. I wanted to get the boat and crew firmly in hand again after our prolonged stay on land—purely on account of the "dead certainty" of that "catch."

We therefore made our first trial, and everything went swimmingly. The "Timmins" stood by and Captain Hinsch told me later that it was a marvellous sight as the "Deutschland" dived in perfect silence, only to reappear again a few minutes later like a flash, her bow foaming, above the water.

The submersion worked perfectly likewise. After this, in order to see if everything was in working order, I gave the command for the boat to come to rest on the bottom at a spot which, according to the map, should have had a depth of 16½ fathoms.

Once more all is still. The daylight fades; the well-known singing and seething of the submersion valves sounds in our ears. The gauge in the conning-tower registers 11 fathoms, 13 fathoms; the power is lessened; 16½ fathoms appears, and I await the gentle impact with which the boat shall touch on the ground....

Nothing of the kind happens.

Instead of this the hand moves round on its dial to 17½, 18, 19 fathoms. I tap my finger on the glass—quite all right, the hand is just turning to 20. "What in the name of fortune's the matter?" I think to myself, and take up the map.

Yes, 16½ fathoms are marked there and we had taken exact bearings up above.... Nevertheless, we continue to sink. Twenty-two fathoms are registered on the dial plate.

This is too absurd. I call down to the control-room and receive the comforting reply that on their big depth gauge also, 22 fathoms have been registered and passed. Our gauges coincide therefore.

This, however, does not prevent the boat from sinking.

The men in the control-room look at each other....

It is a ridiculous situation, to be sinking in this confounded silence into the Unknown and not to be able to see anything but the everlasting backward jerking of that treacherous hand on the white dial....

In the conning-tower it is no different. I glance distractedly backwards and forwards from the map to the gauge.

Meanwhile the boat sinks deeper and deeper; 24 fathoms have gone by.... The hand is moving towards 27.... I am just thinking that the deeps of Chesapeake Bay must come to an end somewhere, and that we can hardly be sinking into groundlessness ... when suddenly, without the least shock, the boat comes to a halt at a depth of 27½ fathoms.

I scrambled down to the control-room and took counsel with Klees and the two officers of the watch.

It could only be that we had struck a hole which was not marked on the map. Well, this was nothing serious, after all. Whether we had to rise from 16 or 27 fathoms was quite immaterial.

I was just about to give the order to rise to the surface, when my glance fell on the gyro-compass, which with its slowly jerking black and white disc hangs usually so serenely in its case, which is lit up from the inside....

I fell back in surprise....

What on earth had come over it? The disc of the compass had gone quite mad and was turning round and round with short jerky movements....

The affair began to grow distinctly uncomfortable. Considering that our gyro-compasses are about the most reliable of any in the whole world, and as at a depth of 27 fathoms in Chesapeake Bay the earth could hardly be revolving round us, there was only one conclusion to be drawn, and that a confoundedly unpleasant one.... We must be turning round and round in our hole, for what reason the devil only knew!

I immediately gave orders for the pumps to be started, with the result that they started rattling, but with a more clanking, empty noise, so to speak, than usual.... They did not help us in the least; we remained sticking in the mud, exactly as we were before. This was the last straw, and I must confess our confidence began to waver somewhat.

In the meantime we had sunk a little deeper according to the depth gauge, while, on the other hand, the rolling had ceased and we lay perfectly still.

Once more I gave energetic orders to rise immediately to the surface. The pumps started rattling and ran empty again. That was no good therefore.

The situation must be carefully thought out, otherwise we should be lying in the same place till morning.

After a lot of trouble the engineer, Klees, succeeded in getting the pumps into working order again.

With a deep humming sound they started pressing the water out of the tanks—they were working! As if transfixed our eyes sought the hand of the depth gauge. Hurrah! we were coming free, we were rising, the hand was pointing to 26 fathoms ... could I trust my eyes ... what the devil was that again? ... the gauge suddenly pointed to 11 fathoms ... then on again to 26 fathoms ... and back to 11 once more....

The affair was now growing critical.... We looked at each other, absolutely at the end of our resources, not knowing what was wrong with the boat or with ourselves, nor even at what depth we were ... and now even the depth gauges had gone mad!...

In order to understand what this means, it must be clearly realised that in a submerged boat nothing can be known or seen, except by means of the hands of the depth gauge. If that once ceases to fulfil its functions correctly, then you are absolutely "at sea."

The situation had therefore grown very serious. Nevertheless, an iron calm reigned in the boat. We had the consolation that in the utmost emergency we could use our compressed air, which could not fail to bring us to the surface, even if the pumps failed us.

There was, however, no need to resort to this. Klees, who had been lost in thought, suddenly gripped hold of one of the valves—a hissing noise of compressed air, the depth gauge pointed wildly to 66 fathoms then sprang back to 26 again ... then the coating of slime which had stopped up the spouts of the gauge was blown away by a little of the compressed air.

The mouths of the pumps were also cleared by means of the compressed air of all the mud and slime which had worked in during our wild circular movements; then the pumps commenced humming in their usual tones, and the "Deutschland" rose obediently to the surface.

We had been, however, one hour and a half under water.

Captain Hinsch, in the "Timmins," came alongside much relieved. He had been unable to understand the meaning of our long submersion and had grown extremely anxious.

We must apparently have got into some kind of pit, where the sand was being "ground" and where, owing to our circular movements, we dug our way gradually into the slime and mud. I then posted the "Timmins" at a distance of two miles away for an observation of a last important submersion test.

Our aim was, without advancing, to rise so that the periscope appeared above water, which was by no means an easy matter. It is naturally much easier to get up to a certain position by utilising the dynamical lift given by the diving rudders, but in doing this the periscope makes a little track of foam through the sea, which might under certain conditions prove treacherous.

We tried, therefore, to lift ourselves from a greater depth by oscillating up to a certain height and, by alternately emptying and filling the tanks at that depth, to reach a floating position in which only our periscope should appear just above the water, and that in a vertical direction.

The experiment succeeded. We were able to stretch out our periscope feelers so that the "Timmins"—who knew roughly our vicinity—did not notice us before our conning-tower appeared above the water.

I now felt certain that we were prepared for all possibilities and could risk breaking through unobserved. We continued therefore calmly on our way with "Timmins" and regulated our course so that we reached the exit between the capes just after darkness had set in.