In the morning a clear, blue sky and a calm sea greeted us. The wind had abated during the night and had changed so that it came from the direction of land, and, therefore, could not disturb the sea to any great extent. In the best of spirits, well satisfied and refreshed by our breakfast, we were sitting on the conning tower, and enjoying the mild air of spring and puffing one cigarette after another. During the night we had reached the position where, for the present, we intended to make our attacks on the merchant transportation which was very flourishing in that region. We crossed the steamship lanes in all directions with guns loaded and with a sharp lookout so as not to lose any opportunity to damage the enemy’s commerce.

Shortly before dinner the first merchant ship arose on the south horizon. It was a sailer, a large, full-rigged schooner, which, hard by the wind, headed towards the French coast. With majestic calm, lightly leaning to the wind, the splendid ship approached. The snow-white sails glittered in the sun in the far distance. The light, slender hull plowed sharply through the sea.

With a delighted “Hello,” we hurled ourselves on our prey. Above our heads fluttered pennants and signal-flags which signified:

“Leave the ship immediately!”

Sharply and distinctly in the bright sun the command traveled from our boat to the large, heavily-loaded ship, and the colors of the German flag-of-war, which floated from the mast behind the tower, left no doubt of the grim sincerity of the command.

Did they not have a signal-book over there, or did they not want to understand us? Ah! A flag went up on the main-mast. The wind unfolded it and, proudly and distinctly, France’s tricolor could be seen. The flag stopped at half-mast—a distress-signal! The flag on half-mast was the pursued sailer’s call for help. They understood our command and were now looking for assistance before obeying us. Wait, my little friend, we’ll soon get that out of you.

“Hoist the signals: ‘Stop immediately or I’ll shoot!’”

The signal flew up. Now, look here, Frenchy, this is no joke; soon the little, gray animal, which is circling around you, will bite.

“We will give, them three minutes to consider the matter, then we’ll shoot down the masts,” I said to Lieutenant Petersen, who was standing by the guns, and, in his excitement, was stepping from one foot to another.

With watch in hand, I counted three full minutes. The sailer did not take any notice of us, just as if our existence had nothing to do with him.

“Such impudence,” I murmured, as I put down my watch. Soon thereafter resounded through the entire boat:

“Fire!”

“Rrrrrms!” the guns thundered with a deafening roar, and the shell whistled through the schooner’s high rigging, in which it tore a large hole, struck the mainyard of the forward mast, exploded, and snapped off the heavy mast, so that, with its sails, it fell like a broken wing on the deck of the ship.

The results were immediately apparent. The red and white pennant, which in the international language means: “I understand!” flew to the masthead. The sailors, who had gathered in groups, looked at us in alarm. They were scattered by the commands of the captain and hurried in all directions to their posts. Giving orders in the singing accents of the French language, the sails were soon lowered and the ship slowed up. The boats were swung out and made ready, and men, with life-saving buoys, were running all over in great excitement.

We closed in on the ship to windward, and I called to the captain to make haste—that I would give him just ten minutes more to get away before torpedoing his ship.

In the bow compartment, where the torpedo tubes are built into the U-boat and the torpedoes themselves are stored, there was feverish activity from the minute we saw the hostile ship and the alarm was sounded. It is cramped in the forward part of a U-boat, very cramped, and it is necessary to have a special crew of very skilled men to be able to accomplish their purpose in this network of tubes, valves, and pumps. The officers’ mess, which is just back of the torpedo compartment, is quite roomy and comfortable. It was now changed in a moment to an uninhabitable place. Ready hands pulled down the oil-stained curtains in front of the bunks and folded up the narrow table and the four chairs without backs. These were all placed in a corner hurriedly, and the luxuries were all gone, making room to handle the torpedoes.

Schweckerle, in command of the torpedo tubes, was like a father in the way he watched over his torpedoes. He loved them as if they were children and continually oiled and greased them and examined them carefully. They said of him that he mourned when he had to separate himself from one of them. And I, myself, saw that when a torpedo, for some reason or other slightly turned, did not strike its target, he went around broken-hearted for many days and could not eat.

This faithful fellow was now busily occupied taking care of his children and had selected “Flink” and “Reissteufel” (these were his names for the two torpedoes now ready for the tubes) when the command was given:

“First torpedo tube ready!”

This meant “Reissteufel” was to go.

Schweckerle was in his element and, when he gave his commands, the sailors ran as if the devil was at their heels.

“You here! You there! You take that! You take the other! Forward! Hurry! Take hold! Get the oil can! That’s good! That’s enough! Now put it in—push it forward! Now hold back! Slowly—slowly—stop!”

One last word of encouragement to the torpedo disappearing into the tube! At last the parting glance, and Schweckerle slammed the tube shut, and “Reissteufel” was ready to go on his way.

At once this was reported to me in the conning tower, but only a few of the allotted ten minutes had passed and we had plenty of time. We took a closer look at the sailing ship before we sent her to the bottom for good. She was a large modern ship, constructed entirely of steel, and had the latest equipment over all, even in the rigging. She could carry a cargo of from three to four thousand tons and, without doubt, had come from a long distance, because sailing ships of this size do not travel along the coast. What kind of a cargo did she carry?

The French crew stepped into her boats and left their ship. The last boat was capsized, when it was launched, and all in it fell into the sea. Another one of the boats came quickly to the rescue and picked up the swimming and struggling sailors. When all had been saved, I turned our prow toward the sailing ship, which was now lying absolutely still, and fired our first torpedo.

Poor Schweckerle! There it goes, but it heads straight, Schweckerle, true as an arrow. Bravo, Schweckerle! The French in the lifeboats, who had approached us where they believed themselves safest, yelled in terror when the detonation followed and the water spout was thrown high above the mastheads.

“Oh, mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! Notre pauvre vaisseau!”

“Poor devils,” I thought. “I understand how you feel over your beautiful, fine ship, but why didn’t you stay at home? Why do you go to sea when you know what threatens? Why do you or your governments force us to destroy your ships wherever we can find them? Do you think we are going to wait until our own women and children starve and let you keep your bread baskets full before we defend ourselves? You have started it. You are responsible for the consequences. If you would discontinue your inhuman way of carrying on the war, then we would let your sailing ships and steamers pass unmolested, when they do not carry contraband. You have wanted war to the knife. Good, we have accepted your challenge.”

The sailing ship sank rapidly by the stern, turning over on her side until the yard arms touched the water and the red bottom could be seen. And, at last, when the pressure burst the forward cargo hatch, there was a shower of corn, and the proud ship, with a dying gurgle, disappeared into the deep.

The captain came aboard us. He never lost for a minute his personality as a polite Frenchman with elegant manners. He swung himself into the conning tower, smiled with the pleasantry of a boulevardier, and, with a gracious bow, handed his ship’s papers to “mon capitaine.” In the most polite and courteous German, I offered him a cigarette, for which he thanked me with a smile, as if we had been the best of friends for years. We questioned him. From where was he coming and where bound? He answered frankly and showed us without requesting it what a valuable catch we had made. It impressed him greatly how we were traveling about in our little shell, and there was no doubt he had an inclination to go along with us on our sea-robbing voyage, if he could have done it.

When I asked him why he had not obeyed our signals to stop, he acted as innocent as a new-born baby, and assured us that he never saw our signals. Indeed, he went so far as to say he had not even observed our U-boat until we fired our gun. When I pointed out to him that he had hoisted the signal of distress long before that and that this made his story hardly believable, he dropped the subject with great skill and gave the conversation a new turn. It was impossible to catch this smooth Frenchman, and when I had him cornered so that another man would not have known what to say, he slipped through the conversation like an eel with his great politeness.

I was struck with surprise to see his men so well dressed, washed, and shaved. I, a “barbarian,” did not want to be behind the Frenchman in point of manners, so I complimented him on his crew’s splendid appearance. Then he began to lament.

“Oh, my poor boys,” he complained. “They have not looked so well throughout our voyage, but only to-day they have been scrubbing themselves, because they hoped to be able to get ashore to-night. See this, mon capitaine,” he continued and opened his log—“on January 23rd we cleared from Saigon and have sailed nearly around the world, and now, only a few hours before reaching our port, we are met with such a disaster. What a tragedy! What a tragedy!”

I consoled him the best I could and promised to assist them so that they could land at the same time they had hoped. Then I, as he was about to leave the U-boat, offered him another cigarette, shook his hand amicably, and sent him off the ship.

We had agreed that I would tow his boats toward the coast until some new spoils hove into sight. Then they would have to do the best they could for themselves.

Soon after two o’clock, this occurred when the mastheads with the tips of white sails arose over the horizon.

We cast off from the boats, wished the Frenchman a safe journey, and turned toward our new prey, while Schweckerle made “Flink” ready.

As we came nearer, we discovered something that made us jump. We had been certain that the ship which was approaching was a large three-master, rigged somewhat like the one that we had just sunk, but what now astonished us and aroused our suspicion was that we distinctly saw, at times, dark clouds of smoke that seemed to be closely associated with the sailing ship which floated between and behind her sails.

“Anything that you cannot explain is always suspicious.”

In accordance with this well tested rule for U-boats, we cautiously kept off a little, so as to let the mysterious ship pass us at some distance. We had heard too much of U-boat sinking to rush at anything blindly. What would happen if, behind the mask of the big sailing ship, a ready and fast torpedo boat was sneaking which, quick as lightning, would swoop down on us? First we must find out with what we had to deal.

We could soon make out what it was. At a distance of about two hundred meters in front of the sailer, there was a strong tug pulling the full-rigged ship with a thick hawser, so that it could make better time. There was nothing suspicious in this in these parts of the sea. It often happened that sailing ships were towed in over the final fifty miles of their voyage to reach port before evening, and thus gain an entire day. The large tugboats went far out to sea and tendered their high-priced services.

“Ah,” we thought, “there is no danger here! But on the contrary, it looks like a grand chance to sink a ship, and, at the same time, send its crew ashore safely”—the thought we always had in mind when it did not interfere with our duty.

I rubbed my hands in satisfaction. We would give the crew of the sailing ship a chance to get aboard the tugboat and so send them home. Maybe they might also meet the shipwrecked crew of the French sailing ship and take them aboard.

At top speed we headed for the tugboat. First we circled round our prey to be sure that we would not be surprised by a masked gun and especially examined the tugboat, because he traveled back and forth daily through the danger zone, and would be more apt to be armed than would the sailing ship coming from a long voyage.

There was nothing suspicious to be seen—therefore we advanced. We approached the stern of the tugboat, slowed down, and, within calling distance, kept pace with him. GrÖning, Petersen, Lohmann, and a sailor were with me in the conning tower. The tugboat flew the British flag. I shouted with the full power of my lungs:

“Take aboard the crew! Take aboard the crew!”

I waved with my left hand toward the sailing ship, in order to make my meaning clear. The commander of the “little bulldog,” as Petersen called the tugboat, took his short clay pipe out of his mouth, spat far out from the bridge where he was standing in a careless attitude, but otherwise took no notice of us except that he may have thrown a shrewd, cunning glance our way. I thought he was hard of hearing and drew a little closer and yelled again:

“Take the crew off!”

The wind had increased during the last few hours and the sea began to run higher and was washing over our deck. It was impossible for us to use our guns—the crew would have been swept away without any chance of being saved—and we were, for that reason, unable to emphasize our commands in a desirable manner, but we knew what to do when the commander on the “bulldog” did not display any inclination to comply with our ten-times repeated order. I had a revolver handed to me from below and let a bullet whistle close to the head of the stubborn rascal. The Englishman seemed to understand this language better. He abandoned his careless slouch, blew the tug’s siren, and yelled loud, sharp commands to the crew. Then he turned for the first time towards me, put his hand to his cap with a short salute, and next lifted his right hand vertically in the air, which, according to the international language of sailors, meant:

“I understand and will obey.”

The crew on the “bulldog,” which in reality bore the name Ormea, had, however, cast off the hawser and were now standing idly all around the deck with their hands in their pockets and looked at us curiously. The captain went to the engine telegraph and signaled “Half speed ahead.”

“Ha,” we thought, “now he’ll turn and lay himself alongside the sailing ship.”

What happened next took only a minute.

When the Ormea had gathered speed, it certainly turned—but not to port, which would have been the nearest way, but towards us. At the same time the skipper signaled to his engine room:

“Full speed ahead!”

The sturdily built, speedy tug rushed at us, pushing aside the waves with her prow.

We had, of course, been keenly observing every move made on the tugboat, but suspected nothing until that moment when he headed straight for us.

“The man is crazy!” I yelled. “He intends to ram us. Full speed with both engines. Hard a-starboard!”

But it looked as if we had grasped the situation too late. The tug had gotten a start on us in speed and came at us, smoking copiously, like a mad bulldog. The distance between us, which to begin with had been two hundred meters, decreased with great rapidity. Now the prow was hardly fifty meters from us. Our hair stood on end.

“Bring up pistols and guns,” I called down.

These weapons, which were hanging always loaded, were quickly handed up to us, and we opened a quick fire on our onrushing enemy. Already I saw the captain’s sly, water-blue eyes scornfully glittering and read the spiteful joy in his grinning face. He had good reason to feel happy. He would reach us, he must reach us, because he had greater speed than we had, and his position was more advantageous. Nearer and nearer came the moment when would stick his blunt, steel prow into our side, and the nearer he approached, the harder our hearts beat.

Twenty meters—fifteen meters! Was there no escape—no hope of rescue?

Yes! GrÖning, the calm and thoughtful GrÖning, became our savior. He was on one knee by me on the conning tower platform and sent one shot after another at the oncoming target. Suddenly he caught the idea which saved us.

“The helmsman!” he yelled. “All men aim at the helmsman!”

In the pilot house with glass windows, stood the mate of the Ormea by his wheel with a sinister grin searching for the point where the blow would be most deadly. We saw him distinctly as he stood there.

Action followed immediately on GrÖning’s saving thought. We stopped the wild shooting against the dangerous prow, and all of us aimed at the helmsman and fired. Hardly had the first volley been discharged when we heard a shriek, and the Englishman threw his arms high and fell forward over his wheel. As he fell, he gripped the spoke of the wheel and spun it around. This saved us from our greatest danger. The prow which was to have crushed us was only about three meters distant when the tug was thrown hard aport, so that it hit only the air.

To show how close the tug was to us, as it swung, its stern struck our diving tank and left a scar as a remembrance. As the beast of prey after missing does not attempt another leap, so the tugboat put on full speed in an effort to escape. The whistling of our bullets and the loss of his mate had apparently made a coward out of a little tugboat captain, but we gave him credit for having been resourceful, after we had recovered from the excitement of the moment and recalled all the circumstances.

I quietly pressed GrÖning’s hand and smilingly touched the spot on his breast, there just below his brave, fearless heart, a spot which, in accordance with the command of his Majesty, the Kaiser, should be reserved for the reward due such a hero. To-day that place is decorated with the black, silver framed Iron Cross.