There, lying terribly clear on the rich blue of the sea, is a thin creamy ribbon of foam running from a point a mile or so away right to the middle of the ship. For a second I realise that it is the track of a torpedo, and I stiffen myself to receive the explosion. Nothing happens. I realise at once that the danger is past, though it seems incredible that we have not been struck. The gun on the forecastle barks out twice, and looking over to the other side of the ship I see two columns of spray leap out of the water near a round patch of white foam, from which a thin white ribbon also runs to the side of the ship. We suddenly understand what has taken place. A submarine has fired a torpedo at us, point-blank, from scarcely twenty yards away; it has passed right under the engine-room, and gone on another mile or so till its face is extended. The first ribbon we saw was the track of the torpedo going _away_ from us. At once the hooter wails out the signal, "abandon ship stations," and the "attacked by submarine" flag is hoisted at the mast. The engine-room telegraph sounds frantically. The ship begins to move forward, and slowly passes the long white spear of death which struck into us, and yet left us miraculously untouched. I can hardly take my amazed eye away from it. So uncanny and awe-inspiring is it, laid across the dark and placid blue of the sea, which sparkles innocently under the cloudless sky of an Ægean June. The sound of our hooter and the sight of our flag, however, has wakened the drowsy fleet to a furious activity. As I begin to adjust the life-belt round my shoulders, in obedience to the "abandon ship stations" orders, I see the transports gather speed as they make for Mudros Bay in great zigzags. The admiral's yacht does not trouble about twisting or turning to avoid the hidden menace, but ploughs at top speed in a straight line for safety. The destroyers rush round in frantic circles, the other balloon ship, the _Hector_, begins to steam rapidly, while its balloon is still in the air, and it can be seen with what speed the yellow gas-bag is being jerked down by the straining winch. The sea is now a scene of furious energy. The white streak of foam across the water has broken the drowsy moontide spell; in front of every bow is a feather of spray, behind each stern a white zigzag wake. Every ship is pointed one way--towards the welcoming boom of Imbros. Suddenly I hear a brief exclamation. "Look at that boat! Yes! By Gaba Tepe! It's been hit. It's the _Triumph_, isn't it? It looks like it!" * * * * *