at turn
the periscope, and eyes glued to the reflector.

"Lower periscope!" he orders. And then: "Raise periscope!" He gives
these orders with clearness; not surprising, as no command must be
misunderstood when you are 25 or 30 feet under the water.

"Lower periscope!"

A man in a corner, next to one who has charge of the gyroscopic compass,
turns a handle, and the greased steel cylinder sinks until the captain,
who had been stretched with toes tipped, now is on bended knees, his
hands extended to stop the periscope man from taking the "eye" further
down. The captain turns the periscope around, scanning the waters. At
his right, when the skipper is facing the bows, is another officer, with
his hand on the trigger of what looks like an upward-pointed pistol of
brass and steel. This officer waits for the command to send off the
torpedo.

"Lower foremost periscope into the well," ordered the captain. This
periscope was not in use and had not been above the surface. It is the
duplicate "eye," in case the other is out of order.

"Yes," said the captain, not looking at me, "she's mostly guts below.
Have a look at that destroyer. We are going to send a practice torpedo
at her, and she will pick it up and return it when we get back home."

The sleek, lean warship was knifing the waters at 22 knots. It was like
looking at a picture--a moving picture--and all was beautifully
distinct. Our commander consulted a card, decided the speed of the
warship, and then again propped his head against the reflector.

"Raise periscope," ordered the two-striper.

For the first time aboard the submarine, there was something akin to
silence, except for the swishing of engines and the continuous buzz of
other mechanism.

"Light to starboard," voiced the captain.

"Light to starboard," repeated the helmsman at the compass.

"Tube ready?" asked the commander, his head hidden between the black
flaps of the periscope.

"Tube ready, sir."

The officer at the trigger stood like a starter at a race, his finger on
the tongue that was to release the torpedo. It was just as it is in the
real moment of moments and a war craft is the target. The men at the two
wheels watched their dials and their bubbles, and the helmsman had his
nose on the needle. The commander, the gold braid on his cuffs streaked
with oil and rust, then had but one thought in his mind--to hit the
target. He looked neither to right nor left but was still at the
periscope.