The hunter knows little, and cares little, about the feelings of the hunted; and if he is hunting for food, or to exterminate vermin, his indifference is not unreasonable. The submarine may be classed with savage beasts, and is even less deserving of pity; but it is not actually an animal, and the difference is important. It is controlled by beings with human intelligence, speech, nerves and faculties; and since they are our enemies, seeking our destruction while we seek theirs, it must be of interest to us, and may be of advantage, to know what are their feelings during the chase.

Information of this kind is not easy to obtain; but the enemy have thought fit to publish, for their own people, a certain number of accounts by submarine officers, and they have not been able to prevent all of them from finding their way to this country. Here, for instance, is an extract from the ‘War Diary of U.202,’ by Lieut.-Commander Freiherr Spiegel von und zu Peckelsheim.

‘At 4 o’clock I again came up to have a look through the periscope.... On our starboard bow was a large French torpedo-boat with 4 funnels, on the watch. There was no land in sight.

‘I should much have liked to sink the smart-looking Frenchman. But the considerable probability, that in such a position I should then have the whole pack hunting me, induced me to refrain. I must admit that I found it very hard not to utilise this opportunity for a shot, and very reluctantly I lowered the periscope and gave orders to dive. This was our salvation. If we had continued a few minutes longer at the level at which here one uses the periscope, I should not be sitting to-day smoking cigarettes and writing my experiences.

‘We were still diving, and the depth-gauge showed 17 metres (56 feet). Suddenly we all had the sensation of having been struck on the head with a hammer. For a second we lost consciousness; then we picked ourselves up from the deck, or from the corners into which we had been thrown, feeling pains in our heads, shoulders, and other parts of our bodies. The whole boat throbbed and trembled. Were we still alive? What had happened? Why was it so dark, black as night? Ah! the light was out!

‘“Examine the fuse!”

‘“Fuse gone!”

‘“Put in spare fuse!”

‘Suddenly we had light again. This was all a matter of seconds, happening in far less time than it takes to describe it.

‘What had happened? Was it really not the end of us? Was not the water rushing into the boat somewhere, and carrying us down to the bottom? It must have been a mine—a tremendous mine detonation close to the boat. Reports were made automatically from all compartments. “Bow compartment not making water; stern compartment all right; engine-room no water.” No water anywhere! ‘Then the boat inclined itself at a peculiar angle—the bow went down and the stern rose up. The boat was unaccountably trimmed by the bow, although the hydroplanes were hard over in the opposite direction.

‘“There is something wrong, sir,” reported the man at the diving-wheel. “The boat won’t answer to her helm. We must be hung up somewhere, by a rope, or perhaps a net!”

‘The devil! We are in a net, of course, and above us there are mines secured to the net. It is enough to drive one out of one’s mind.

‘“Pay attention!” I shouted from the conning-tower. “We have got to get through! Hydroplanes hard up and hard down, utmost speed ahead with both engines! Don’t let her rise! Whatever happens, keep down! There are mines above us!”

‘The engines started, revolving at their highest revolutions. The boat shot forward, caught in the net, strained against it, bored itself a way downwards, tugged, tore, and finally left the wire net all ripped apart.

‘“Hurrah! We are free! The boat answers to her helm!” cried the helmsman from below.

‘“Go deeper, dive to 50 metres (164 feet),” I ordered. “This is an evil spot hereabouts—it is hell itself.”

‘I sat down on the life-saving apparatus and buried my head in my hands. Everything was going round with me like a mill-wheel. Above my eyes I had a pain as though needles were sticking into my forehead, and I had such a humming in my ears that I stopped them up with my fingers.

‘“This is certainly an evil spot,” I repeated to myself, “but what luck we had, most extraordinary luck, which has saved us!” ‘Some time elapsed before the pains in my head allowed me to fit things together and understand what had happened. Yes, it was pure luck that we had dived just in time. We were at a depth of 17 metres when the explosion occurred, our bows touching the net. Things grew clearer and clearer to me as I thought them over.

‘When we hit against the net we stretched it taut and thus actuated the mine detonators, the mines being attached to the net at the depth at which a submarine usually proceeds. If we had attempted to attack the torpedo-boat, or for any other reasons had remained a little longer at the depth at which the periscope can be used, we should have run into the net in just the way that the enemy would have wished—viz., so that the mines would have exploded alongside or underneath us. What actually happened was that the mine exploded above us, and the main force was expended in the line of least resistance (viz., upwards), and we suffered nothing more than a fearful fright, and perhaps a few disfigurements to the thin plating of the superstructure.’

U.202 was certainly lucky this time. And though she was saved by sheer luck and nothing else, it is not unnatural, considering the ever-growing roll of those which fail to escape, that Lieut.-Commander Freiherr Spiegel von und zu Peckelsheim should enlarge upon his terror at the moment and his self-congratulation afterwards. But he is mistaken if he thinks that he has come through the worst that can happen to a submarine commander. His struggle in the net was short and easy, when compared with the feats of a Bruce or a Cochrane in passing and repassing the barrage off Kilid Bahr; and the jar he got from his mine seems to have affected his head more than his boat. In older navies, and among less excitable nations, these things are reported more quietly—more from a professional than a sensational point of view. ‘I think,’ writes Commander Courtney Boyle of a very similar accident, ‘I must have caught the moorings of a mine with my tail as I was turning, and exploded it ... the whole boat was very badly shaken.’ Not a word more about it, though his cruise continued for more than ten days afterwards. Without disparaging the German officer (who no doubt shares the national temperament, and knows how to move his audience), we may take pleasure in noting that the steadiness of nerve and the scientific view are in our favour. Given anything like a fair fight, and a reasonable time for play, it will not be the Peckelsheims who will win against our men.

An experience of another kind is described in a number of the Illustrierte Zeitung of July 12, 1917. The date of the engagement was February 22, in the same year.

‘Just at dinner time the watch reports a tank steamer in an E.N.E. direction, steering a course approximately towards the boat. Masts, bridge and funnel are visible above the horizon. Tank steamers are very hard to sink, as they have stray bulkheads fitted to keep their volatile cargo in check. The torpedo must hit the aftermost engine to stop the tank steamer. The periscope must only be shown occasionally for a very short time, so as not to alarm her. The torpedo is fired at 700 metres (765 yards) away, the submarine comes to the surface and fires a shot from her forward gun, as a signal to stop. The steamer understands, lowers two boats, and the crew abandon ship. Steam is blown off in a high white column. The master appears to be a sensible man, who does not intend to expose himself to shell fire for no purpose. The submarine approaches submerged and takes stock of the vessel—a black tank steamer, grey superstructure, no guns—the naval patent log hanging over the stern. The submarine then makes for the boats. As soon as they see her periscope, they hastily pull away. At length the submarine finds a favourable position to come to the surface, outside the boats, so that the latter are in the line of fire. She rises to the surface, with compressed air in her midship diving-tanks, the conning-tower hatch is opened and the process of blowing out the tanks begins. The boats have pulled away a little further, and just as they are being hailed there is a flash from the steamer.

‘A submarine trap! Alarm. Flood tanks, dive rapidly! The seconds seem interminable. The superstructure abaft the conning-tower is penetrated, and hardly has the hatch been closed when there is a sharp report in the conning-tower, a yellow flash, and explosive gases fill the air. A shell has penetrated the side of the conning-tower and exploded inside. All the fittings are shattered by splinters; there is a sound of breaking glass. Another shell will fall directly and that will be the end of the war for us. Water is splashing in through the shot hole; the boat is sinking into the shelter of the deep. The conning-tower is cleared, the inner hatch and voice-pipe cock are closed, and the leads laid into the control room.

‘“Anyone injured in the conning-tower?” Only one, very slightly; but their faces are black and their clothes look as though they had seen service.

‘At 20 metres (65 feet) there are two sharp explosions, and the boat trembles. The “poor shipwrecked men” have thrown depth-charges after us. A few of the lights go out, and further damage to the main switchboard is averted by timely action. The conning-tower is filling. In theory the boat can still remain afloat, but no one has yet survived to tell us how. The increasing weight causes the boat to sink to 40 metres (131 feet) in spite of her being down by the stern and with the engines at utmost speed. Water spurts through the leaky places, and, owing to short circuits, half the lights and important machinery break down successively—gyro compass, main rudder, forward hydroplane (which, to make matters worse, jams at ‘hard down’), trimming pumps, and all control apparatus. The tricolour captured from the full-rigged ship La Bayonne is pressed into service to plug the leak. The boat must be lightened by compressed air in the after and amidship diving tanks, and brought on to an even keel. She rises, certainly, but is more down by the stern than ever. The after compressed air service breaks down. We must avoid coming to the surface, whatever happens, for up above the enemy is lying in wait to fire at us. At 20 metres (65 feet) the diving-tank valves are opened, and all available men sent forward, in order that their weight may cause the bow to sink. The boat sinks by the bow, and the manoeuvre is repeated. In another twenty minutes it becomes impossible to proceed submerged. There is now only one, not very promising, alternative—to come to the surface suddenly and run away, firing as we go. ‘“Compressed air in all the tanks, open galley ventilator, man the guns, Diesel engines ready, and put to utmost speed as soon as possible.”

‘The boat comes to the surface, the galley hatch is opened. A torrent of water rushes down; never mind, we shall have to swim for it directly, anyhow. Now the way is clear to the surface. The steamer is about 25 hms. (2734 yards) away, and firing as fast as she can. “You haven’t got us yet—not by a long way!” The guns quickly reply. Any result? The telescopic sights are still in the flooded conning-tower. The M.A.N. motors are quickly started—much more quickly than is permissible, but when all is staked on one card there is no help for it. All the men who are not occupied below are bringing up supply ammunition. The sub-lieutenant suddenly feels his feet blown away from under him, and staggers through a cloud of smoke against the gun. Poor fellow, he has probably had both legs shot away. But no, only a few small splinters—nothing more! The shell passed between the legs of the foremost gunlayer, the drum of his ear was perforated by the report, and there are some lumps and holes in the ready ammunition. The shells pass through, close to the men; they look like black specks in the air just before they fall. One of the railing supports is shattered. A Leipzig man is standing in the stern at the hand-wheel, steering calmly by the verbal directions of the navigating warrant-officer—the compasses can no longer be used.

‘The telescopic sights can now be recovered from the conning-tower. There is a report, “Destroyer to starboard.” Quite right. She is proceeding on a parallel course at 80 hms. (8750 yards) and the fire of her four guns mingles with that of the tank steamer. A destroyer like that has a speed of over 30 knots, and carries 4-inch guns.

‘“On lifebelts!” Below the horizon, in a S.S.E. direction, there must be a sailing-vessel; we sighted one this morning. Perhaps the boat may be able to reach her, so as to save the crew from a Baralong fate.

‘The guns’ crews have become so deaf from the noise of their own guns that it is only possible to direct one gun by verbal orders. The decoy ship is now so far away that there is no further need to fire at her. Open fire on the new foe then! This is not a destroyer, however, but a “submarine-destroyer” of the Foxglove class, about twice the size of the submarine, but no faster. At the same moment the second-engineer reports that he can repair the damaged conning-tower, and our hopes soar as far as neutral Spain.

‘“Open fire at 70 hms. (7655 yards)!” Soon the columns of water from the shells, as high as the funnels, mark the fall of the shots, and the enemy begins to zigzag to avoid the troublesome shells, thereby interfering with the aim of her own guns. Suddenly the superstructure is enveloped in black smoke. A hit! Another! Several shells do not throw up a column of water; they must have buried themselves in her hull. Now she turns away, escapes from the zone of fire, and then follows in our wake.

‘The damage caused by the short circuit is repaired, ammunition put ready beside the guns, and, like Wellington at Waterloo, we await the coming of night. Our pursuer must have reported the engagement by wireless, with position and course. Soon destroyers will appear and compel the submarine to submerge. The leaking oil supply will leave a track of oil on the surface, and indicate where depth-charges should be dropped.

‘The wireless aerial, which has been shot away, is repaired in order to keep an eye on the enemy’s signals. Nothing to be heard. A lucky shot must have destroyed our pursuer’s wireless, and she cannot report. All the men who are not occupied below are on deck smoking, discussing their impressions, experiences, and premonitions; dreams, uncomfortable forebodings, fortune-telling from cards, and all the means—such as green frogs—by which old fortune-tellers and ancient augurs used to foretell the future.

‘The sun is sinking below the horizon; the chase has already lasted more than three hours. The decoy ship has long passed out of sight, and no new enemies have appeared. Suddenly shells begin falling close by. The Foxglove means to have another try as long as the light holds, and we feel that this is an impertinence. “Man the guns!”

‘Again the after gun carries off the honours of the engagement. The rounds follow close on one another: sometimes three shells are in the air at once. They will soon reach their target; the enemy again tries to zigzag. Range and deflection are quickly adjusted, and the shells leave her no peace. Once again that beautiful cloud of black smoke envelopes her superstructure and several others fail to raise the expected column of water. The enemy has ceased firing; she turns sharply away at 92 hms. (10,000 yards), and follows us only at a respectful distance. An hour later she disappears in the darkness.’

The deliberately false German communiquÉs, and even the more craftily composed stories in their press, are, as a rule, distinguished only for their clumsiness and bad psychology. But this is a vivid and quite possible account, and, if the details are accurate, the commander of the submarine had a most trying experience and brought his boat home by great luck. It is hard to imagine a moment more desperate than that in which, after struggling to the surface and escaping from the Q-boat’s guns, he heard the report of ‘Destroyer to starboard,’ and knew that he could neither dive nor run from such an enemy. A good deal might have been made of this by a more inventive writer; the simple comment ‘Quite right!’ is much more convincing than any highly coloured phrase, and is almost enough by itself to prove the narrative genuine. Another intense moment lightly touched is that in which the deadly ‘destroyer’ turns out to be only the little 10-knot patrol boat Alyssum, with her small guns, and a flight for bare life becomes suddenly a successful repulse of the enemy. It is noticeable, too, that the commander is not once mentioned, and all his orders are given as uttered rather than as heard; the narrator, moreover, is familiar with the story of Wellington at Waterloo, and makes a country gentleman’s joke about missing a hare. On the whole, I think it is plain that we have here a true account.

Stories such as this are hard to come by, for the hunted seldom escape so narrowly and with so good a tale to tell. But our own records show at least one case of the kind, and it is one in which the crew of the submarine passed through an even severer trial, for they were hunted by their own side and had not the joy of a good fighting chance to sustain them. In August, 1917, Lieut.-Commander V.M. Cooper, in command of one of H.M. submarines, was ordered to patrol a neighbouring coast, close in, between certain parallels. He was warned not to arrive on his billet before 10 A.M., for the very good reason that some of our own light forces were conducting operations in that direction during the night, and might be met returning at any time in the early morning. It must be remembered that when such a meeting does occur, no system of signalling is to be relied on for safety. A submarine will always be attacked on sight by any ship, friend or enemy, for she is a danger too deadly to be given a moment’s chance. Her colours, if she show any, may be false, and only a seaplane can afford her the time necessary for answering a private signal. Commander Cooper knew all about this. He decided to arrive on his billet about noon, when the risk would presumably be over.

At 8 o’clock, then, on the finest summer morning of the year, Commander Cooper was making his passage at normal surface speed, when the horizon on his starboard bow began to be delicately shaded by faint pencilled lines. Ten minutes more and a number of ships were visible, two points on the bow, and five to six miles away. They were immediately in the sun, and blurred by the haze, so that it was impossible to detect their nationality. They might be our own squadron, coming back unexpectedly early, or more likely a hostile force running from them. The only thing certain was that they had sighted the submarine and were bent on her destruction, for they were all bows on, bearing down upon her at high speed—destroyers and cruisers—throwing up clouds of dense black smoke. Commander Cooper was in no indecent hurry, but he knew what he had to do. He must get down, or be put down. Moreover, he must get well down; for the water was very clear, and the sea flat calm, without a ripple. After a last look at the charging squadron he dived to ninety feet, changing his course to 185°.

His troubles began at once: the helm was reported jammed—it was amidships. He sent the first-lieutenant to inspect, the report was that the gear was all correct—the jamming seemed to be due to the tightening of the rudder-post gland, either from external pressure, or from some distortion of the after compartment of the ship. In any case, nothing could be done for the moment, and there were plenty of distractions coming. At 8.37 the sound of propellers was recorded on the hydrophone—the destroyers were passing from port to starboard overhead, like hounds abreast trying to pick up a scent.

One of them, must have thought she had hit it off, for a tremendous explosion shook the submarine—a depth-charge had been dropped not far behind her, shaking her stern violently. In her steering flat, the first-lieutenant and his men were lifted bodily off their feet. The commander continued his dive, and to his great comfort took bottom at 125 feet on the gauge.

Within three minutes of the first explosion, a second one followed. It was equally violent, and to Commander Cooper appeared even louder; but he told himself that this effect was probably due to the relative position of the bomb, which had apparently detonated in a line with the conning-tower. As he was himself in the control-room, in the centre of the ship, the explosion would naturally sound louder, being on the starboard beam instead of aft.

The boat was well built, and the commander had perfect confidence in her. This was not his first experience of the kind. Exactly a year before, he had been out in the Cattegat in an E-boat and had met ‘a wrong un’—a Greif or MÖwe, which had opened fire on him with four 6-inch guns at 2000 yards and straddled him at once. The boat had to dive as she was, in complete surface trim. Shot after shot fell close to her; she was shaken by explosives and struck by splinters. Finally a 6-inch shell came alongside and threw up a huge column of water which fell plump on the commander as he descended through the hatch. Part of it accompanied him down the ladder, but he had the presence of mind to draw the lid down behind him, and he and his boat lived to tell the tale. So he knew that a British submarine can stand a shock or two. But what made him really anxious was the question—which he hoped would occur to no one else on board—why did those two depth-charges fall so near one another: why did the enemy drop the second so close to the first? The horrible suspicion came into his mind that his position was being given away by something that he could only guess at—some noise or some escape of air bubbles or oil which was reaching the surface.

What was to be done? Nothing, but to lie closer than ever, and enjoy the calm of the man who has done all that is possible. The order was given to stop all motors, even the Sperry motor for running the gyro compass. All vent valves, and other possible leaking places, were inspected and reported tight.

Then came the third explosion, the most violent of all. Lights went out suddenly, and the crew—groping in darkness—thought that the end had come.

For a moment the ship seemed to be stunned; then the lights reappeared. They had not been injured, but the shock had thrown all the chopper-switches on the auxiliary switchboard to the ‘Off’ position. Not a trace of a leak could be discovered—the ship was alive still, and without a mortal wound. In her commander’s judgment it would take a direct hit, or something very near it, to kill her.

Perhaps the most trying time of all was that which now followed. What happened? Nothing happened. It was that which was so trying. From 9.5 A.M., when the third depth-charge exploded, till 4.7 P.M., the submarine lay motionless on the sea-bed; no one on board knew when it would be safe to move, or even whether it would be possible at all—for both helm and hydroplanes were jammed and other defects might be discovered. This was a test of moral stability as severe as any yet recorded, even in the submarine service, and it is not surprising that Commander Cooper was eventually ordered to add to his report a special statement on the moral effects of the strain upon his ship’s company. He reported accordingly, not in the picturesque style of the German officer, exhilarated by his successful fight, but with the brevity of a man of science and the simplicity of a narrator who has nothing to prove. The behaviour of the officers he assumes without a word; that of the men, he says, was admirable. Naturally it varied with the individual; the older and more experienced men observed the demeanour of their officers, and were content to abide by it; the younger ones showed more difference, each in accordance with his temperament; but they, too, did excellently, and having been assured that all was well, the whole company settled down to read or to occupy themselves in other ways. In the majority of cases the events of the day had no permanent effect, though for a short time afterwards some of the men would start on being wakened or touched suddenly by others. As to himself, the commander declares that he thought the chances of being destroyed by depth-charges small. To retain this opinion in the circumstances was a proof of remarkable constancy; the constancy of the ‘man convinced against his will’ in the proverb. And he felt at the time, as he frankly says, that he would much rather remain on the surface and engage an enemy, however large, and at all costs, than endure the strain of a further experience of the kind. It would be likely, he thought, to affect the judgment for some days, causing a tendency to act over-cautiously or over-rashly.

None the less he carried on. At 4.7 the submarine left the bottom and rose to a depth of 28 feet; at 8.35 in the evening she came to the surface and proceeded to her billet. There she carried out the duties of her patrol, and six days later, ‘at 1 P.M., British Summer Time,’ she returned to her base.

Of the hunted who do not return to their base we cannot hope to hear much. But there was a smart engagement towards the end of 1917 between an American convoy-escort and a German submarine, of which accounts have been given by both sides, those above water and those below. The convoy was approaching our shores towards dusk of a November afternoon when the attack was made. The U-boat’s periscope—a ‘finger’ one, of only two inches diameter—was sighted by the U.S.S. (destroyer) Fanning, which was at the moment turning to port at a speed of about fifteen knots. The submarine was 3 points on the Fanning’s port bow, distant about 400 yards, and going some two knots. The other destroyers had just passed the spot where she was seen; the second of these, U.S.S. Nicholson, was now on the Fanning’s starboard bow, and very handy for what was to follow. The commander of the Fanning, in order to continue his swing to port, put his helm hard over and at the same time increased speed to full. The periscope, of course, disappeared instantly. But every eye on the Fanning had marked her position. The commander, when he had turned about 30°, ported his helm so as to bring his ship right over the desired place, slightly ahead of the periscope’s last position, and there he dropped a depth-charge, within three minutes of the first alarm. It was a fine piece of work, and, as it turned out, a decisive stroke.

Nothing was seen for the moment, beyond the upheaval of water caused by the detonation. The Fanning continued to turn under starboard helm; the Nicholson altered course to starboard, turned, and headed for the spot where the charge had been dropped, intending, no doubt, to drop a shot of her own in the same place. She could not have made a luckier move. The conning-tower of the submarine suddenly broke surface between her and the convoy, about 500 yards from where it had disappeared. The boat was one of the new large-type U-boats, and was evidently hit, for she could neither submerge properly nor keep an even keel, but went rolling up and down like a gigantic porpoise in the direction of the convoy. The two destroyers headed for her at full speed; Nicholson, who was, of course, leading, passed over her, dropped her depth-charge, and turned to port, firing three rounds from her stern gun into the wash. Once more the enemy’s bow came up with a bound. This time he made a desperate effort to keep on the surface, and struggled along at two knots, being about 30° down by the stern. Finally he righted himself, no doubt by filling tanks and crowding men forward, and his speed seemed to increase. But by this time Fanning’s guns were speaking to him in unmistakable language; after the third shot the hatch opened, a white shirt was waved, and the whole crew came on deck holding up their hands.

It was now 4.28; the fight had taken no more than eighteen minutes from first to last, and ten minutes later the U-boat sank. Her crew had opened the sea valves and nearly paid the penalty, for they were all in the water before they could be got off to the destroyer, and one who could not swim was rescued by two chivalrous Americans. They jumped into the dark, cold sea for him, forgetting all about the German rules of war, and were disappointed when he died on deck.

The account given by the survivors was full of interest. They were forty-one in number, including a captain-lieutenant, a first-lieutenant, a lieutenant and a chief-engineer. The boat had come straight from her base for the express purpose of attacking this particular convoy, and had been lying in wait for two days, paying no attention to any other ships. She carried twelve torpedoes, and she carries them still, for not one had been fired when she went down. The first depth-charge from Fanning had been practically a direct hit; it had wrecked her motors, diving gear, and oil leads, and sent her diving entirely out of control to a depth of 200 feet. The commanding officer thought at first that he would never be able to stop her, and that she would go on until the deep-sea pressure burst her sides in. He had only one possible course—he blew out all his four water-ballast tanks at once. This stopped the dive but brought the boat back to the surface with a rush and made her unmanageable. One witness in the destroyers says that she ‘leaped clear of the water like a breaching whale.’ It was then that Nicholson overtook her and dropped the second depth-charge; but even without this the end was inevitable, for in her porpoise-like gambols she could have been shot or rammed with certainty. Given a sufficient supply of patrol boats and depth-charges in the submarine chase there will be but few and evil days for the hunted. The American naval authorities have grasped this truth at once and founded a building policy upon it. The boats will be provided in any number, and if they are handled as the Fanning and Nicholson were handled, the U-boat will spend her short life in dodging a perpetual bombardment.

That the end of the pirate, when it does come, is terrible, may easily be conjectured, but probably no imagination could give any idea of the actual experience. There is, however, in existence a narrative, compiled by a neutral from the evidence of two Germans who survived, by an extraordinary chance, the destruction of their ship. These men were among the crew of a U-boat of the largest and newest type, one of the last to come out of Zeebrugge before the harbour was bottled up by the Intrepid and Iphigenia. She had not gone far from port when she hit a mine and exploded it. The shock was severe, but did not at once appear to be fatal. The electric switches were thrown out of position, the lights in some compartments went out, and the vessel began to sink rapidly by the stern; but the lighting did not take long to restore, and the crew were immediately ordered to trim the boat by making a combined rush forward. This manoeuvre was successful in bringing her to an even keel, but by no effort could she be induced to rise to the surface.

Now began the terror; the plating of the ship had been shaken and forced apart by the explosion; water was pouring in; the leaks were rapidly enlarging, and all attempts to stop them failed. In very few minutes the boat would be filled either with water or with chlorine gas from the batteries. It was hardly possible to escape from the death-trap; but there was one desperate chance, if the conning-tower and forward hatches could be forced open against the pressure of the sea.

The commanding officer and the chief engineer entered the conning-tower and ordered their men to open one of the forward hatches. If this could be done, though the crew would have little hope of pushing their way up through the incoming torrent, the air-pressure inside the boat would be so greatly increased that the officers would be probably enabled to open the conning-tower and escape. But the outside pressure was too great for the hatch to be moved. The most violent efforts were made, the men working in relays and using their strength desperately, while their companions urged them on with terrible cries. Meantime it was becoming more and more difficult to breathe; the salt water was penetrating the batteries and giving off chlorine gas. The stern of the vessel was now fully flooded and the internal air pressure was rapidly increasing as the free space grew less. The moment of suffocation was near. But the hatch could not be raised.

At this point, some of the crew lost control and behaved like madmen. They crammed cotton waste into their ears and nostrils, and plunged beneath the water, which was now knee-deep. One man turned his revolver upon himself; it missed fire; he hurled it from him and plunged after his comrades. One, who still kept his head, with a final effort forced open one of the torpedo tubes and let in the water to end the struggle one way or another. Hope returned for a moment. The internal air pressure increased to such a pitch that the conning-tower and forward hatch could both be opened. Officers and men sprang and fought their way upwards through the inrush.

Perhaps twenty in all made their way out of the ship; but it was only passing from one death to another. Human lungs are not adapted for the sudden change from a deep-sea pressure to surface conditions. The shrieks of these unfortunate men were heard by a trawler which happened to be passing near; but before she could reach them all were dead but two, and those two were broken men, bleeding from the lungs and crushed in spirit. They had digged a cruel pit and fallen into the midst of it themselves.