"Submerge quickly!"... "Flood the tanks!" "Diving rudder; eleven fathoms down." The commands follow each other in rapid succession. But to carry them out is a different matter! To submerge head on to this sea will be from all experience sheer madness.... But what am I to do? The destroyer may have seen us already.... Down we must go, and as quickly as possible. Below me, in the control-room, the crew are working in speechless haste. The emergency air valves are opened, the compressed air hisses out of the tanks--the submersion valves sing in all their scales.... I stand with compressed lips, looking through the tower window over the tossing sea around me, waiting for the first sign of sinking.... But still I can see our deck, still the waves toss us up high into the air.... We have no more time to lose. I order more play to diving rudders, and give the command, "Both engines full speed ahead!" The whole boat trembles and sways under the increased engine power, and gives a couple of springs; she staggers and reels. Is she never going to sink?... Then with a jerk she dips suddenly under by the bow and disappears rapidly at an ever-increasing angle beneath the waves. The daylight which is just dawning in at the conning-tower window disappears, the depth gauge shows in rapid succession one--one and a half--three--five fathoms.... But still the angle of the boat increases. We stagger, lean backwards, slip over, losing all grip on the floor which is sinking forward ... I am still just able to hold on to the eye-piece of the periscope ... and down below in the control-room the men are holding fast on to the hand-wheels of the diving rudders.... This lasts for several terrible moments. We are still wondering what on earth has happened, when suddenly there comes a heavy blow; we are thrown to the ground in all directions, and everything that is not nailed securely down is hurled around us. We find ourselves in the strangest positions, look at each other, and for a moment a deadly silence prevails. Then the first officer, Krapohl, observes dryly: "Well, we've got there, anyway." This broke the horrible tension. We had all grown pretty pale, and now we began to try and face the situation. What had happened? Why this unnatural angle of the boat? And why were the engines pounding so madly above us that the whole boat quivered and shook? Before any of us had time to think, however, our little Klees, the steering engineer, had sprung from his cowering position, and quick as lightning had pulled the telegraph round to "Stop." As suddenly a deep silence followed. Slowly we collected our various limbs together and considered: what had happened? The boat was standing on her head, so to speak, with her fore-part sloping downwards at an angle of thirty-six; her bow must be touching ground while the stern was obediently oscillating in the air above water; the gauge meanwhile showed a depth of about eight fathoms.