“No, I was forty foot under when he hove out the big un.  What happened to you?”

“My steering-gear jammed just after I went down, and I had to go round in circles till I got it straightened out.  But wasn’t he a mug!”

“Was he the brute with the patch on his port side?” a sister-boat demanded.

“No!  This fellow had just been hatched.  He was almost sitting on the water, heaving bombs over.”

“And my blasted steering-gear went and chose then to go wrong,” the other commander mourned.  “I thought his last little egg was going to get me!”

Half an hour later, I was formally introduced to three or four quite strange, quite immaculate officers, freshly shaved, and a little tired about the eyes, whom I thought I had met before.

LABOUR AND REFRESHMENT

Meantime (it was on the hour of evening drinks) one of the boats was still unaccounted for.  No one talked of her.  They rather discussed motor-cars and Admiralty constructors, but—­it felt like that queer twilight watch at the front when the homing aeroplanes drop in.  Presently a signaller entered.  “V 42 outside, sir; wants to know which channel she shall use.”  “Oh, thank you.  Tell her to take so-and-so.” ...  Mine, remember, was vermouth and bitters, and later on V 42 himself found a soft chair and joined the committee of instruction.  Those next for duty, as well as those in training, wished to hear what was going on, and who had shifted what to where, and how certain arrangements had worked.  They were told in language not to be found in any printable book.  Questions and answers were alike Hebrew to one listener, but he gathered that every boat carried a second in command—­a strong, persevering youth, who seemed responsible for everything that went wrong, from a motor cylinder to a torpedo.  Then somebody touched on the mercantile marine and its habits.

Said one philosopher:  “They can’t be expected to take any more risks than they do. I wouldn’t, if I was a skipper.  I’d loose off at any blessed periscope I saw.”

“That’s all very fine.  You wait till you’ve had a patriotic tramp trying to strafe you at your own back-door,” said another.

Some one told a tale of a man with a voice, notable even in a Service where men are not trained to whisper.  He was coming back, empty-handed, dirty, tired, and best left alone.  From the peace of the German side he had entered our hectic home-waters, where the usual tramp shelled, and by miraculous luck, crumpled his periscope.  Another man might have dived, but Boanerges kept on rising.  Majestic and wrathful he rose personally through his main hatch, and at 2000 yards (have I said it was a still day?) addressed the tramp.  Even at that distance she gathered it was a Naval officer with a grievance, and by the time he ran alongside she was in a state of coma, but managed to stammer:  “Well, sir, at least you’ll admit that our shooting was pretty good.”