I forgot about my life-belt--I wanted to find Mac. I couldn't. It was pitch black. The water was waist deep and washing over you in gigantic waves. There was only one chance--to jump for it. I took it. I landed near the propellers. I could hear them churning fiercely--I could feel their suction drawing me to them. I guess I fought like a fiend. I'd heard about the death men die drawn into that blasted hole the ship makes when she goes down to Davy Jones. I didn't think of home. I didn't think of my past sins. I just thought with every ounce of my strength that if I could keep swimming for a few seconds more I could be clear of that undertow. I made it. All around me men were calling for help. I made out a life-boat a few yards away and hollered to them, and just then an oar floated by. I never was so glad to see anything in my life. I rested on it and caught another. Two oars! Why, it was as good as a raft. I was safe--if only I could find McCaffrey in that black hell. I yelled his name and heard a sputter behind me. "For God's sake, save me----" "Can't you swim?" "No." "Stay where you are; I'll get you." It was Spick, one of the oilers--a big chap, weighing a good one-ninety. "Steady! I'm coming." He grabbed the oar and lay across it, a dead weight. Someone else pulled me down. "Help!" It was little Tucker, mess attendant, a kid of seventeen. He was all in. I shoved them both along, and they were heavy, let me tell you. Someone in the boat saw us and drew alongside. They lifted us in. "Where's McCaffrey?" I asked them. Just then I saw him. He was swimming straight for us. I let out a yell, but it died in my throat. Straight out of the water, not twenty yards away, rose the gray bulk of the submarine, its greenish light casting a weird glow over that awful scene of struggling men. Fritz's war-baby had come back to gloat over the damage it had done. Our captain, with his pocket light, was flashing the Morse code on the water as he floundered about. From the deck of the submarine the commander's voice rang out. He spoke as good English as I do. "What ship have I hit?" Someone told him. "Where is your captain?" Silence. "_Where is your captain?_" Then it was that little Tucker, sitting forward, tense, leaned far out and yelled: "Douse yer glim, Cap, douse yer glim. . . ." Out it went. The commander gave an order. We couldn't hear it, but we were afraid he meant to make straight for us and cut us in two. We pulled away, but, instead, he was wishing us the best of luck to lie there and rot, and then they submerged--just vanished into the black water from which they had appeared. We waited trembling, but nothing happened. There wasn't a boat in sight. The old hulk of our ship had gone down forever. I thought of the Captain and of McCaffrey. "Let's get 'em now, mates," I urged. But from the direction in which we'd last heard them there came no sound. They weren't there. Nobody was. So we pulled away.