I was honoured by a glimpse into this veiled life in a boat which was
merely practising between trips. Submarines are like cats. They never
tell "who they were with last night," and they sleep as much as they
can. If you board a submarine off duty you generally see a perspective
of fore-shortened fattish men laid all along. The men say that except
at certain times it is rather an easy life, with relaxed regulations
about smoking, calculated to make a man put on flesh. One requires
well-padded nerves. Many of the men do not appear on deck throughout
the whole trip. After all, why should they if they don't want to? They
know that they are responsible in their department for their
comrades' lives as their comrades are responsible for theirs. What's
the use of flapping about? Better lay in some magazines and
cigarettes.

When we set forth there had been some trouble in the fairway, and a
mined neutral, whose misfortune all bore with exemplary calm, was
careened on a near-by shoal.

"Suppose there are more mines knocking about?" I suggested.

"We'll hope there aren't," was the soothing reply. "Mines are all
Joss. You either hit 'em or you don't. And if you do, they don't
always go off. They scrape alongside."

"What's the etiquette then?"

"Shut off both propellers and hope."