The captain and I will maintain a chart here in the wireless cabin, on which we will show by colored pins the positions of enemy craft and sinkings as these are reported. Already there are two pins up off Newfoundland and one in the south Atlantic, the latter for the raider Seeadler, even before we are at sea.He flipped to a page of the manual and handed it to Dale.
Notation entered, Dale sat back and proceeded as usual to scan the dial listening for marine traffic. His heart jumped. He heard, ". _ . _ . . . _ . . _ _ _," (ALLO) followed by a profusion of dashes in a triplet pattern -- a warning as attention getting as SOS. He waited for the location. It came, "Cape Spartel." Dale phoned the bridge. "Submarine in our front yard, Cape Spartel."
May 30 6 AM. Crossed 7.5° west.
1,000 miles from Azs. 100 miles to Gbr.
We're on GMT.
First glance at the ship astern showed her entire fore part enshrouded in smoke with a huge column of smoke and spray coming down over her. She had heeled over to starboard and was just swinging back to an even keel. Her engines had stopped and she was turning slowly toward her attacker. Her single gun was banging away at a tiny whitish feather far off and which disappeared in a few seconds. Our old ship was turning off to starboard . . .Baxter yelled at him, "Get back where you belong."
While they were a quarter mile away we could hear the drumming, roaring sound of their fans and engines which were beating the water into a small turbulent mountain astern. A rim of reddish and blue haze whipped and curled back from their stubby funnels. As they drew past us British tars pulled themselves along her decks by hand guideropes, their shirttails snapping and fluttering in the forty knot breeze as they rushed on.That's more like it, Dale thought. Heaving a sigh of relief, he returned to his post.