Harwich Harbour, in November, 1918.

I made no reply; I had just granted him a favour by allowing him to
leave the upper deck of the submarine, in order that he might await the
motor launch in some sort of privacy; why should he ask for more?

Undeterred by my silence, he continued: "I have a great friend,
Lieutenant-zu-See Von Schenk, who brought U.122 over last week; he has
lost a diary, quite private, he left it in error; can he have it?"

I deliberated, felt a certain pity, then remembered the _Belgian
Prince_ and other things, and so, looking the German in the face, I
said:

"I can do nothing."

"Please."

I shook my head, then, to my astonishment, the German placed his head
in his hands and wept, his massive frame (for he was a very big man)
shook in irregular spasms; it was a most extraordinary spectacle.

It seemed to me absurd that a man who had suffered, without visible
emotion, the monstrous humiliation of handing over his command intact,
should break down over a trivial incident concerning a diary, and not
even his own diary, and yet there was this man crying openly before me.

It rather impressed me, and I felt a curious shyness at being present,
as if I had stumbled accidentally into some private recess of his mind.
I closed the cabin door, for I heard the voices of my crew approaching.