At twelve noon, in a small clearing on the outskirts of a wood a few kilomètres from the town of Kiel, three carriages were drawn into the seclusion of the tree-trunks. The horses attached thereto stamped impatiently. Either they were very fresh or they had been waiting too long. Further in amongst the trees was a party of men talking earnestly to one another. They were military officers, and a doctor was with them. They appeared to be expecting somebody to arrive, or something of importance to happen. At last one of them, kicking furiously at a small bush, asked his companion, a man much older than himself, "What was that idiotic proviso you spoke about? 'You cannot persuade a civilian gentleman to rise until the world has been properly aired'? We ought to have spitted him when we had the chance!" "My dear Fritz," replied his companion, "you never did have the chance; what is still more clear to me now is the fact that you never will. But if he's one of those _Swinehund Engländer_--if so, then--_mein Gott! Am Tag!_" Saying which he viciously spat upon the turf. CHAPTER XV ESCAPING FROM A SUBMARINE A SHIP OF ILL OMEN--ATTACKED--HELL LET LOOSE--PANIC--FIGHT FOR THE BOATS--COWARDLY CONDUCT--POWERLESS TO ACT--SHRAPNEL AT SEA--SURRENDER--TAKING CHARGE OF SHIP AND CARRYING ON--VALUE OF SMOKE-BOXES--TERRIBLE ANTICIPATIONS--LAND AT LAST--REMINISCENCES UNTOLD. On one occasion, after I had left the British Foreign Secret Service, I had to undertake a voyage to the outer islands of the Hebrides, situated about one hundred miles into the Atlantic, due west of Scotland, and well away to the north-west of Ireland. It was known at the time to be a place which was infested with German submarines, which had perpetrated many atrocities whilst operating in that region: senseless, coldblooded murder of innocent fishermen, by blowing up their frail craft to atoms at close range with deck-guns; and the sinking of innumerable ships irrespective of the chances of their crew to make land in the small boats that might be left undamaged by their shell-fire. It was summer time and no suggestion of a submarine attack troubled anyone concerned on contemplating the voyage. "I don't like that boat. She looks like a bird of ill-omen," I remarked to my companion as we stood on the high quay at Oban looking downwards at a very small and very dirty steamer which was moored thereto. She was about one hundred and sixty feet long, with as much available space as possible devoted to cargo and cattle transit. Her decks seemingly had never been scrubbed since the day she was launched. Paint had been relegated to the background if superior tar was available. The saloon cabin, so-called, reeked with a conglomeration of ancient and nauseous smells, whilst the two private berths matchboarded off from it were altogether impossible to anyone holding the smallest ideas on sanitary principles.