The prospect of a go with the enemy had brought with it a keen
thrill of anticipation. Now, a submarine crew is a well-trained machine.
There are no shouted orders. If a submarine captain wants to send his
boat under quickly, he simply touches the button of a Klaxon; the horn
gives a demoniac yell throughout the ship, and each man does what he
ought to do at once. Such a performance is called a "crash dive."
"I'd like to see him come up so near that we could ram him," said the
captain, gazing almost directly into the sun. "Find out what she's
making."
[Sidenote: Getting up speed.]
The engineer lieutenant stooped to a voice-tube that almost swallowed up
his face, and yelled a question to the engine-room. An answer came,
quite unheard by the others.
"Twenty-four, sir," said the engineer lieutenant.
"Get her up to twenty-six."
The engineer cried again through the voice-tube. The wake of the vessel
roared like a mill-race, the white foam tumbling rosily in the setting
sun.
[Sidenote: Seventy feet below the surface.]
Seventy feet below, Captain Bill was arranging the last little details
with the second in command.
[Sidenote: The plan of attack.]
"In about five minutes we'll come up and take a look-see [stick up the
periscope], and if we see the bird, and we're in a good position to send
him a fish [torpedo], we'll let him have one. If there is something
there, and we're not in a good position, we'll manoeuvre till we get
into one, and then let him have it.
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