The depth-needle crept back. Somehow there was a slight feeling of apprehension this time. The novelty of actual attack had worn off, and having been through it once there was always the feeling of what was to come. People who read the accounts of vessels being sunk by submarines and talk glibly of piracy and other nonsense from the depths of their arm-chairs never realise the nerve required to carry out those attacks, or the feeling of being cooped up in a tiny shell out of reach of air and sunlight, with the knowledge that there is no quarter meted out to the undersea-forces. Neither do they realise that orders are orders, and that the German submarine captains are merely obeying their orders when they torpedo merchant ships at sight. Wrong it may be, and undoubtedly is, but the fault lies with the higher command and not with the individuals. Did they disobey orders they would lay themselves open to be shot as traitors. The so-called ‘well-worn platitude of obeying orders’ is no chimera, but an actual and very real fact, which urges men to commit actions which may be wholly against their finer feelings. As the boat rose Raymond reduced to full fields, and presently she steadied at thirty feet. Then the periscope was raised, and after a final look round the captain spoke again,-- ‘Eighteen feet. Bring her up quickly, so that you can get down again at once if necessary.’ The two coxswains moved their wheels. Again that tense, strained feeling came over the boat. The men were all on the alert, waiting for the expected result. As she came up Raymond kept his eye at the lens watching for the moment the periscope would break surface. The men stood by; there was always the horrible possibility of rising right under the keel of an enemy Destroyer. At nineteen feet the captain lowered the periscope quickly, and the boat descended to the thirty foot level. Then came the expected order,-- ‘Flood the tubes.’ ‘They’ve spread out,’ Raymond explained, as Seagrave departed forward in a state of bustle. ‘Two of them are astern on either quarter, and the other’s about a mile ahead. They’re looking for us, but so far they haven’t seen us. Steer 270 deg.’ ‘Steer 270 deg. Course, sir,’ echoed the helmsman mechanically. ‘Eighteen feet,’ ordered Raymond, and up came the periscope, the captain following the lens up with his eye as the instrument rose. ‘Right. Down periscope. Keep her at her depth. Stand by.’ ‘Stand by, sir,’ Seagrave called out. ‘All ready, sir.’ ‘When I fire dive to 60 feet,’ continued Raymond. ‘Up periscope.’ The moment had come once more, and the eyes of the boat were glued to gauges and meters. The log ticked on, and the repeater-compass clicked to itself as the seconds went by. Somewhere forward a man sneezed, and the sound broke the tension like the crack of a pistol. ‘Keep her at her depth. Steady helm now. Sixty feet. Fire!...’