There is only one good job in a submarine and that is the Captain's. He
knows and decides everything. The rest of us are in his hands and take
things on trust. I object on principle to my life being held in Alten's
hands. It is all very well for the crew, for, to start with, they have
no imagination, and to most of them their mental horizon stops at the
walls of the boat. Secondly, they have the consolation of mechanical
activities; they make and break switches and open and close
valves--they work with their hands. An officer has imagination, and
only works with his head.

As we attacked the steamer, all one heard was murmurs from Alten, such
as: "Raise!" "Lower!" "Take her down to ten metres!" "Half speed!"
"Slow!" "Bring her up to five metres!" "Raise!" "Lower!"

I endeavoured to simulate an air of unconcern which I was far from
feeling.

Not that I was a prey to physical fear; I flatter myself it is so far
unknown to me, and there was no great danger, but simply that I longed
to know what was happening. At length I heard the welcome order:

"Starboard tube. Stand by!"

Which was followed almost immediately by the order: "Fire!"

There was a kind of coughing grunt, and the starboard torpedo proceeded
on its errand of destruction.

Every ear was strained for the sound of the explosion, but all we were