 9. A very awkward accident took place this morning, which resulted in severe injury to Johann Wiener, my second coxswain. A party of men under his direction were engaged in shifting the stern torpedo from its tube in order to replace it with the spare torpedo, as I never allow any of my torpedoes to stay in the tube for more than a week at a time owing to corrosion. The torpedo which had been in the tube had been launched back and was on the floor plates. The spare torpedo, destined for the vacant tube, was hanging overhead, when without any warning the hook on the lifting band fractured, and the thousand kilograms mass of metal crashed down. Wonderful to relate, no one was killed, but two men were badly bruised, and Wiener has been very seriously injured. He was standing astride the spare torpedo, and his right leg was extremely badly crushed, mostly below the knee. Unfortunately it took about ten minutes to release him from his position of terrible agony. I should have expected him to faint, but he did not. His face went dead white, and he began to sweat freely, but otherwise endured his ordeal with praiseworthy fortitude. I am now confronted with a perplexing situation. I cannot take him back to Germany. I cannot even leave my station and proceed south to any of the Norwegian ports. If I could find a neutral steamer with a doctor on board, I would transship him to her. But the chances of this godsend materializing are a thousand to one in these latitudes. If I sighted a hospital ship, I would close her, but as far as I know at present there are no hospital ships running up here. The chances of outside assistance may therefore be reckoned as nil. Wiener's hope of life depends on me, and I cannot make up my mind to take the step which sooner or later must be taken, that is to say, amputation. It is a curious fact, but true nevertheless, that although, as a result of the war, men's lives, considered in quantity, seem of little importance. When it comes to the individual case, a personal contact, a man's life assumes all its pre-war importance. I feel acutely my responsibility in this matter. I see from his papers that he is a married man with a family. This seems to make it worse. I feel that a whole chain of people depend on me. New entry. Since I wrote the above words this morning, Wiener has taken a decided turn for the worse. I have been reading the medical handbook, with reference to the remarks on amputation, gangrene, etc., and I have also been examining his leg. The poor devil is in great pain, and there is no doubt that mortification has set in, as was indeed inevitable. I have decided that he must have his last chance, and that at eight p.m. to-night I will endeavor to amputate. New entry. Midnight. I have done it. Only partially successful. New entry. Last night, in accordance with my decision, I operated on Wiener. Voitman assisted me. It was a terrible business, but I think it desirable to record the details whilst they are fresh in my memory, as a court of inquiry may be held later on. Voitman and I spent the whole afternoon in the study of such meager details on the subject as are available in the medical handbook. We selected our knives and a saw, and sterilized them. We also disinfected our hands. At 7.45 I dived the boat to sixty meters, at which depth the boat was steady. We had done our best with a wardroom table, and upon this the patient was placed. I decided to amputate about four inches above the knee, where the flesh still seemed sound. I considered it impracticable to administer an anesthetic, owing to my absolute inexperience in this matter. Three men held the patient down, as with a firm incision I began the work. The sawing through the bone was an agonizing procedure, and I needed all my resolution to complete the task. Up to this stage, all had gone as well as could be expected, when I suddenly went through the last piece of bone and cut deep into the flesh on the other side. An instantaneous gush of blood took place, and I realized that I had unexpectedly severed the popliteal artery before Voitman, who was tying the veins, was ready to deal with it. I endeavored to staunch the deadly flow by nipping the vein between my thumb and forefinger whilst Voitman hastily tried to tie it. Thinking it was tied I released it, and alas the flow started again. Once more I seized the vein. Once again Voitman tried to tie it. Useless, we could not stop the blood. He would undoubtedly have bled to death before our eyes had not Voitman cauterized the place with an electric soldering iron which was handy. Much shaken, I completed the amputation, and we dressed the stump as well as we could. At the moment of writing, he is still alive, but as white as snow, he must have lost leaders of blood through that artery. New Entry Veener died two hours ago. I should say the immediate cause of death was shock and loss of blood. I did my best. New Entry We have been out on this extended patrol area seven days, but not a wisp of smoke greets our eyes. Nothing but sea, sea, sea. Oh, how monotonous it is! I cannot make out where the shipping has got to. Tomorrow I am going to close the North Cape again. I think everything must be going inside me. I am too far out here. New Entry The North Cape bears due east. Nothing afloat in sight. Where the devil can all the shipping be? In ten days' time I am due to meet my supply ship. Meanwhile I think I'll have to take another cast out of three hundred miles or so. New Entry Nothing in sight. Nothing, nothing. The barometer falling fast and we are in for a gale. I have decided to make the coast again as I don't want to fail to turn up punctually at the rendezvous. New Entry In the standard rack land home fjord, thank heavens. Heavens, we had had a time. We were still two hundred and fifty miles from the coast when we were caught by the gale. And a gale up here is a gale, and no second thought's about it. To say it blew with the force of ten thousand devils is to understate the case. The sea came on to us in huge foaming rollers like waves of attacking imagery intent on overwhelming us. We struggled east at about three knots, but she stuck it magnificently. Low scutting clouds obscured the sky and came like a procession of ghosts from the northeast. Sun observations were impossible for two reasons. Firstly, no one could get on deck. Secondly, there was no visible sun. This lasted for three days, at the end of which time we had only the vaguest idea as to where we were. The gale then blew out, but, contrary to all expectations, was succeeded by a most abominable fog, thick and white, like cotton wool. These were hardly ideal conditions under which to close a rocky and unknown coast, but it had to be done. The trouble was that it was entirely useless taking soundings as the twenty meter depth line on the chart went right up to the land. We crept slowly eastwards till, when by dead reckoning we were ten miles inside the coast, the navigator accidentally leaned on the whistle-leaver, this action on his part probably saved the ship, as an immediate echo answered the blast. In an instant we were going full speed of stern. We altered course sixteen points and proceeded ten miles westerly, where we lay on and off the coast all night, cursing the fog. Stay it lifted, and we spent the whole time trying to find the entrance to the S. Landholm Fjord. The coast seemed to bear no resemblance to the chart whatsoever. The cliffs stand up to a height of several hundred meters, with occasional clefs where a stream runs down. There are no trees, houses, animals, or any signs of life, except sea-birds of which there are myriads. The engineer declares he saw a reindeer, but five other people on deck failed to see any signs of the beast. After hours of nosing about, during which my heart was in my mouth, as I quite expected to fetch up on a pinnacle rock, items which are officially described in the handbook as being very numerous, we rounded a bluff and got into a place which seems to answer the description of S. Landholm. At any rate, it is a snug anchorage, and here I intend to remain for a few days, and hope for my store-ship to turn up. I posted the daylight lookout on top of the bluff. It would be very awkward to be caught unawares in this place, which is only about a hundred and fifty meters wide in places. I'm taking advantage of the rest to give the crews some exercises and execute various minor repairs to the diesels. New Entry Yesterday we fought what must be one of the most remarkable single-ship actions of the war. At nine a.m. the lookout on the cliffs reported smoke to the northward. I got the anchor up and made ready to push off, but still kept the lookout ashore. At nine thirty he reported a destroyer in sight, which seemed serious if she chose to look into my particular nook. At any rate I thought I wouldn't be caught like a rat, so I got my lookout on board, a matter of ten minutes, and then proceeded out, trimmed down, and ready for diving. When I drew clear of the entrance I saw the enemy distant about a thousand meters. I had once recognized her as being one of the oldest type of Russian torpedo boats afloat. When I established this fact a devil entered into my mind and did a most foolhardy act. I decided that I would not retreat beneath the sea, but that I would fight her as one service ship to another. When I make up my mind I do so in no uncertain manner. Indecision is abhorrent to me, and I sharply ordered—Gun's crew, action! I can still see the comical look of wonderment which passed over my first lieutenant's face, but he knows me, and did not hesitate an instant. We drilled like a battleship, and in sixty-five seconds I timed it as a matter of interest. From my order we fired the first shot. It fell short. Extraordinary to relate the torpedo boat without firing a gun put her helm hard over and started to steam away at her full speed, which I suppose was about seventeen knots. I actually began to chase her, a submarine chasing a torpedo boat. It was ludicrous. With broad smiles on their faces my good Gun's crew rapidly fired the gun, and we had the satisfaction of striking her once, near her after funnel. But it did no vital damage, as a few minutes afterwards she drew out of range. What a pack of incompetent cowards! They never fired a shot at us. I suppose half of them were drunk, or else in a state of semi-mutiny, for one hears strange tales of affairs in Russia these days. The whole incident was quite humorous, but I realized that I had hardly been wise, as without doubt the English will hear of this, and these trawlers of theirs will turn up, and I'm certainly not going to try any heroics with John Bull, who is as tough a fighter as we are. Meanwhile, what of the supply ship, for I'm supposed to meet her here, and it's already twenty-four hours since yesterday's epic-making battle, and I expect the English any moment. New entry. My doubts were removed for me, since I received special orders at noon by high-power wireless from Nordreich, and on decoding them found that, for some reason or other, we are ordered to proceed to Muckelflugge Cape, and then stand the coast of Shetlands to the Fair Island Channel, where we are directed to cruise till further orders. Special warning is included as to encountering friendly submarines. It appears to me that a special concentration of U-boats is being ordered round about the Orkneys, and that some big scheme is on hand. We are now steering southwesterly to make Muckelflugge, which I hope to do in four days' time, if the weather holds. These northern waters have proved very barren of shipping in the last few weeks, and this fact, coupled with the approaching winter weather, which must be fiendish in these latitudes, makes me quite ready to exchange the archangel billet for the work round the Orkneys and Shetlands, though this is damnable enough in the winter in all conscience. There is only one fly in the ointment, and that is that this premature return to North Sea waters might conceivably mean a visit to Zebrugge, though this class are not likely to be sent there. Though it is many weeks since I left Zoe, I have not been able to forget her. I continually wonder what she is doing, and often when I am not on my guard she wanders into my thoughts. Whilst I am up here it does not matter much, except that it causes me unhappiness, but if I found myself at Brugge it would be very hard. However, I don't suppose I shall ever see her again. New entry. Sighted Muckelflugge this morning, and shaped course for Fair Island. Oh, what a hell I have passed through! I can hardly realize that I am alive, but I am. The weather I shall be tomorrow morning is doubtful. It all depends on the weather, and who would willingly stake their life on North Sea weather at this time of the year. Curses on the man who sent us to the Fair Island Channel. Where the devil is our intelligence service? If we make flanders I have a story to tell that will open their eyes, blind bats that they are, luxuriating in the comfort of their fat staff jobs ashore. The Fair Island Channel is an English death trap. It stinks with death. By cursed luck we arrive there just as the English were trying one of their new devices, and it is the devil. Exactly what the system is I don't quite know, and I hope never again to have to investigate it. For forty-seven hours we have been hunted like a rat, and now, with the pressure hull leaking in three places, and the boat half full of chlorine, we are struggling back on the surface, practically incapable of diving at least for more than ten minutes at a time. Even on the surface, with all the fans working, one must wear a gas mask to penetrate the four compartment. Oh, these English, what devils they are! Here is what happened. Fair Island was away on our port beam when we sighted a large English trawler, which I suspected of being a patrol. To be on the safe side I dived and proceeded at twenty meters for about an hour. At five p.m. approximately I came up to Periscope depth to have a look around, but quickly dived again as I discovered a trawler, steering on the same course as myself, about a thousand meters astern of me. This was the more disconcerting as in the short time at my disposal it seemed to me that she was remarkably similar to the craft I had seen in the afternoon, and yet this hardly seemed likely as I did not think she could have sighted me then. On diving I altered course ninety degrees, and proceeded for half an hour at full speed, then altered another ninety degrees in the same direction as the previous alteration, and diving to thirty meters I proceeded at dead slow. By midnight I had been diving so much that I decided to get a charge on the batteries before dawn I also wanted to be up at one a.m. to make my position report. I surfaced after a good look round through the right Periscope, which as usual revealed nothing. I had hardly got on the bridge when a flash of flame stabbed the night on the starboard beam and a shell moaned just overhead. I crashed dived at once, but could not get under before the enemy fired a second shot at us, which fortunately missed us. As we dived I ordered the helm hard to starboard to counteract the expected depth charge attack. We must have been a hundred and fifty meters from the first charge and a little below it five others followed in rapid succession, but were further away, and we suffered no damage beyond a couple of broken lights. The situation was now extremely unpleasant. I did not dare venture to the surface and thus miss my one a.m. signal from headquarters. I wanted to charge badly and so proceeded at the lowest possible speed. At regular intervals our enemy dropped one depth charge somewhere astern of us, but these reports always seemed the same distance away. At dawn I very cautiously came up to Periscope depth and had a look. To my consternation I discovered our relentless pursuer about fifteen hundred meters away on the port quarter. In some extraordinary manner he had tracked us during the night. I dived and altered course through ninety degrees to south. At nine a.m. a tremendous explosion shook the boat from stem to stern, smashing several lights, and giving her a big inclination up by the bow. As I was only at twenty meters I feared the boat would break surface, and our enemy was evidently very nearly right over us. I had once ordered hard to dive and went down to the great depth of ninety-five meters. A series of shattering explosions somewhere above us showed that we were marked down, and we were only saved from destruction by our great depth, the English charges being set apparently to about thirty meters. At noon the situation was critical in the extreme. My battery density was down to eleven hundred and fifty. The few lamps that I had burning were glowing with a faint dull red appearance, which eloquently told of the falling voltage and the dying struggles of the battery. The motors with all fields out were just going round. The faces of the crew, pallid with exhaustion, seemed of an ivory whiteness in the dusky gloom of the boat, which never resembled a gigantic and fantastically ornamental coffin so closely as she did at that time. The air was fetid. I struck a match. It went out in my fingers. The slightest effort was an agony. I bent down to take off my sea-boots, and cold sweat dropped off my forehead, and my pulse rose with a kind of jerk to a rapid beating like a hammer. I left one sea-boot on. At one p.m. a deputation of the crew came aft, and in whispered voices implored me to surface the boat and make a last effort on the surface. A muffled report, as our implacable enemy dropped the depth-charge somewhere astern of us, added point to the conversation and showed me that our appearance on the surface could have but one end. At three p.m. the second coxswain, who was working the hydroplanes, fell off his stool in a dead fate. At three-thirty p.m. the supreme crisis was reached. Two more men faded, and I realized that if I did not surface at once I might find the crew incapable of starting the diesels. At the order surface a feeble cheer came from the men. We surfaced. I dragged myself up to the cunning-tower. Luckily we started the diesels with ease, and in a few minutes gusts of beautiful air were circulating through the boat. Meanwhile, what of the enemy? I had half expected a shell as soon as we came up, and it was with great anxiety that I looked round. We had been slightly favored by fortune, and that the only thing in sight was a trawler away on the port beam. It was our hunter. I trimmed right down, hoping to avoid being seen, as it was essential to stay on the surface and get some amperes into the battery. I also altered course away from him. It was about five p.m. that I saw two trawlers ahead, one on each bow. By this time the boat's crew had quite recovered, but I did not wish to dive as the battery was still pitiably low. I gradually altered course to northeast, but after half an hour's run I almost ran on top of a group of patrols in the dusk. I crashed-dived, and they must have seen me go down as a few minutes later the boat was violently shaken by a depth charge. We were at twenty meters, still diving at the time. I consulted the chart, but could find a bottoming ground within fifty miles, a distance which was quite beyond my powers. At eleven p.m. I simply had to come up again and get a charge on the batteries. From seven p.m. to ten p.m. at regular half-hourly intervals a depth charge had gone off somewhere within a radius of two miles of me. Needless to say I was only crawling along at about one knot and altering course frequently. What was so terrible was the patent fact that the patrols in this area had evidently got some device which enabled them to keep in continual touch with me to a certain extent. These monotonous and regular depth charges seem to say, We know, O U-boat, that we are somewhere near you, and here is a depth charge just to tell you that we haven't lost you yet. Carl was quite right. It is evident that he had the misfortune to encounter one of our new hydrophone hunting groups, just started in the Fair Island Channel. The incident of the depth charges every half hour was known as Tickling Up. Probably the patrol only heard faint noises from him. ATN. End of footnote. As an hour had elapsed since the last depth charge I felt fairly happy at coming up, and on making the surface I was delighted to find a pitch-black night and a considerable intensity. From ten p.m. to one a.m. I actually had three hours of peace, and in this period I managed to cram a considerable amount of stuff into the batteries. The densities were rising nicely and all seemed well when I did what I now see was a very foolish thing. I made my one a.m. wireless report to Nordreich, in which I requested orders at three a.m. and reported my position, together with the fact that I had been badly hunted. In twenty-five minutes they were on me again. I had most idiotically assumed that the English had no directional wireless in these parts. They have. They've got everything that they have ever tried up there. It was concentrated in that infernal Fair Island Channel. I was only saved by seeing a destroyer coming straight at me, silhouetted against the low-lying crescent of a new moon. When I dived, she was about six hundred meters away. As I have confessed to doing a foolish thing, I give myself the pleasure of recording a cleverer move on my part. I anticipated depth-charge attack as a matter of course, but instead of going down to twenty-five meters, I kept her at twelve. The depth-charges came all right, seven smashing explosions, but, as I had calculated, they were all set to go off at about thirty meters, and so were well below me. The boat was thrown bodily up by one, and I think the top of the conning-tower must have broken surface, but there was little danger of this being seen in the prevailing water conditions. I have just had to stop recording my experiences of the past forty-eight hours, but I have to stop recording my experiences of the past forty-eight hours. I was disappointed, as the hydrophone operator kept on reporting the noise of destroyers overhead. Occasional distant thuds seemed to indicate a never-ending supply of depth-charges, but they were about four or five miles from me. Perhaps some other unfortunate devil was going through the fires of hell. At daylight on the second day my position was still miserable, the battery was getting low again, the sea had gone down, and when I put my periscope up at nine a.m. the horizon seemed to be ringed with patrols. I felt as if I was in an invisible net, and though I endeavored to conceal my apprehension from the crew, I could see from the listless way they went about their duties that they realized that once again we were near the end of our resources. All the forenoon we crept along at thirty meters, until the tension was broken at one p.m. by a furious depth-charge attack. In some extraordinary way they had located me again and closed in upon me. The first charges were some little distance off, and as they got closer a feeling of desperation overcame me, and I seriously contemplated ending the agony by surfacing and fighting to the last with my gun. Finally enough the procedure that I adopted was the exact opposite. I decided to dive deep. I went down to a hundred and fourteen meters. At this exceptional depth three rivets in the pressure-hole began to leak, and jets of water were the rigidity of bars of iron shot into the boat. I held on for five minutes, which was sufficient to save me from the depth-charge attack, though two which went off almost above me broke some lamps. I then came up to twenty meters and slowly crawled on. Throughout the long afternoon, though we were not directly attacked again, I heard depth-charges on several occasions sufficiently close to me to demonstrate that these implacable and tireless devils had an idea of the area I was in. By a supreme effort, working one motor at the only speed it would go, dead slow, I managed to squeeze out the battery until I estimated it must be dusk. There was only one thing to do. I surfaced. It was not as dark as I had hoped, and I saw a fairly large, sloop-like vessel about eight thousand meters away on the port beam. She must have seen me simultaneously, as the flash of a gun darted from her, the shell falling short. I couldn't dive. There seemed only one thing to do, fight and then die. I ordered the gun's crew up, and the unequal duel began. We were going full speed on the diesels, and my course was east by north. A good deal of water and spray was flying over the gun, and my crew had little hope of doing much accurate shooting, but I have often found that when one is being fired at there is nothing so comforting as the sound of one's own gun. Our enemy was armed with two large guns, fifteen centimeters or over, but had no speed, a discovery which raised my hopes again. It was soon evident that, provided we were not heading for another patrol, if we could survive ten minutes shelling, we should be saved for the time being by the fading light, which was evidently causing our enemy increasing difficulties, as his shots alternated between very short and very much over. I was actually congratulating the navigator on our escape, and I had just told the gun's crew to cease firing at the blurred outlines on the port quarter from which the random shells still came, when there was a sheet of yellow flame and a jar which threw me against the signalman. The latter had been standing near the cunning-tower hatch, and unfortunately I knocked him off his balance, and he fell with a thud into the upper cunning-tower. He had the good fortune to escape with a couple of ribs broken, but when I recovered myself and got to my feet, far worse consequences met my eyes. By the worst of ill luck a shell which must have been fired practically at random had hit the gun just below the Port Trunnion. The result of the explosion was very severe. Of the seven men at the gun had been blown overboard. The breach-worker was uninjured, though from the way he swayed about it was evident that he was dazed, and I expected to see him fall over the side at any moment. The remaining two men were as dead as horse-flesh. The material damage was even more serious. The gun had been practically thrown out of its cradle, but in the main the Trunnion blocks had held firm, and the whole pedestal had been carried over to Starboard. The really terrible effects of this injury were not apparent at first sight, but I soon realized them, for an hour later, we had shaken off the sloop. I saw a red flame on the horizon, which plainly indicated flaming at the funnel from some destroyer, doubtless looking for us at high speed. I dived, intending to surface again as soon as possible. With this intention in my head I did not go below the upper conning tower. We had barely got to ten meters, when loud cries from below and the disquieting noise of rushing water told me that something was wrong. I blew all tanks, surfaced, left the first lieutenant on watch, and went below. There were five centimeters of water on the battery boards, and I understood at once that we could never dive again. For the pedestal of the Trunnion, in being forced over, had strained the longitudinal seam of the pressure hole to which it is bolted, and a shower of water had come through as soon as we got under. It might have been hoped that this was enough, but no, our cup was not yet full. Cluring gas suddenly began to fill the forend. The salt water running down into the battery tanks had found acid, and though I ordered quantities of soda to be put down into the tank, it became, and still is, at the moment of writing, impossible to move forward of the conning tower without putting on a gas mask and oxygen helmet. So we are helpless, and at the mercy of any little trawler or even the weather. We have no gun. We cannot dive. The English must know that they have hit us, and every hour I expect to see the hull of a destroyer climb over the horizon astern. We are fortunate in two respects, in that for the time being the weather seems to promise well, and our diesels are thoroughly sound. We are ordered to see Brugge. I could have wished elsewhere for many reasons, but it does not matter, as I cannot believe we are intended to escape. I feel I would almost welcome an enemy ship. It would soon be over. But this uncertainty and anxiety drags on for hour after hour, and now I cannot sleep, though I haven't slept properly for over seventy hours. I am so worn out that my body screams for sleep, but it is denied to me, and so lest I go mad, I write. It is better to do this, though my eyes ache and the letters seem to wriggle than to stand up on the bridge looking for the smoke of our enemies, or to lie in my bunk and count the revolutions of the diesels, thousands of thousands of thudding beats, one after the other, relentless hammer-strokes. I haven't endured much. A break occurs in Carl van Schenck's diary at this juncture. Fortunately the main outlines of the story are preserved, owing to Zoe's long letter, which was in a small packet inside the cover of the second notebook. Zoe's letter will be reproduced in this book in its proper chronological position, but in order to save the reader the trouble of reading the book from the letter back to this point, a brief summary of what took place is given here. The entries in his diary which follow the words, I have endured much, are very meager for a period which seems to have been about a month in length. There was no further mention of the latter stages of Carl's passage in the wrecked boat to Seabrooga, so it is presumed that he made that port without further adventure. He was evidently on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and appears to have been suffering from very severe insomnia. He had been hunted for two days, during which he was perpetually on the verge of destruction, and the cumulative effect of such an experience is bound to leave its mark on the strongest man. When he got back to Seabrooga he must have been at the end of his tether, and whether by chance or design it was when Carl was, as he would have said, at a low mental ebb, that Zoe made her last and successful attack upon his resolution not to see her again, unless she consented to marry him. It is plain from her letter that when he left her after the stormy interview in which he vowed never to see her again, Zoe did not lose hope. She seems to have kept herself au courant with his movements, and actually to have known when he was expected in. We know that she had many friends amongst the officers, and it is probable that from one of these she was able to get information about Carl's movements. Bruges was probably a hotbed of U-boat gossip, and, not unlike the conditions at certain other naval ports during the war, the ladies were often too well informed. At any rate it appears that Zoe rushed to see Carl directly he arrived at Bruges, and found him a mental and physical wreck, suffering from acute insomnia. With the impetuous vigor which evidently guided most of her actions, she took complete charge of Carl, and as he was due for four days leave she whisked him off to the forest. Carl may have protested, but was probably in no state to wish to do so. At her shooting-box in the forest Zoe achieved her desire, and the stubborn struggle between the lovers ended in victory for the woman. There is an entry in Carl's diary which may refer to this period. He simply says, SLEPT AT LAST. OH, WHAT A JOY! If this entry was written in the forest, it seems as if Carl had been unable to sleep until Zoe carried him off to the forest piece of her shooting-box, and surrounded him with the atmosphere of her tender sympathy. There is no evidence of the light in which Carl viewed his defeat, when, having regained his strength, he was able to take stock of the changed situation. It is reasonable to suppose that his silence upon this matter in the pages of his diary is evidence that he was ashamed of what he must have considered a great act of weakness on his part. At all events he realized that he had crossed the Rubicon, and that he had better acquiesce in the feta complet. He seems to have been in the harbour for about six weeks, during which he lived with Zoe, and the lovers enjoyed a brief spell of happiness before Carl set out on his next trip. Carl seems to have found those six weeks very pleasant ones, though his diary merely contains brief references, such as, A DAY IN THE COUNTRY WITH ZEE. ZEE and I went to the cavalry dance, and other trivial entries of his thoughts there is not a word. About the end of 1917 Carl's boat was repaired, and he left for the Atlantic, and once more resumed full entries in his diary. CIND ATN. Carl's diary resumed. Sailed at 9 p.m. last night, and we are now seventeen miles off Beechey Head. The straits of Dover were frightful. The glare of the acetylene flares on the barrage showed for miles. Seen from a distance it gave me the impression of the gates of Hell, through which we had to pass. I dived ten miles away, and went through with the tide at a depth of forty metres. Two hours and three quarters of suspense in it dawned we came up, having passed safely through the great death-trap. At the moment there is nothing in sight, except a little smoke on the horizon. I'm going to dive again until dusk. NEW ENTRY 2 a.m. We are thrashing down the channel with the south-westerly wind right ahead. My instructions are to work for two days between the lizard and consale head, and then proceed far out into the Atlantic, where the convoys are supposed to meet the destroyers. That Fair Island channel experience was enough for a lifetime. With quick short and sudden this I am ready for. But torture, slow, long, and drawn out, is not in the bargain which in this year of grace every civilised man and half the savages of the world seem to have had to make with the god Mars. As I sit in this steel, cigar-shaped mass of machinery, the question rings incessantly in my ears. To what object is all this war directed when analysed from the point of view of the individual? It does not satisfy any longing of mine. I have not got a lust for battle, no one who fights as a lust for battle. Editors of newspapers and people on general staffs, possibly also cabinet ministers, have lusts for battles, as long as they arrange the battle and talk about it afterwards, curse them. The only thing I want is to be with Zoe. I want to live and spend long years with her, enjoying life, this life of which I have spent half already, and now perhaps it will be taken from me by some other man, some Englishman, who does not really want to take my life, reckoned as an individual. Around me in the darkness are the patrol boats, manned by the Englishmen who are seeking my life, seeking it, not to gratify their private emotions, but because we are all in the whirlpool of war and cannot escape. Like an avalanche it seems to gather strength and speed as it rolls on, this war of nations. The world must be mad. I cannot see how it can ever stop. England will never be defeated at sea. We shall conquer on land. Then what? An inconclusive peace. Even if we smashed this island empire and gained the dominion of the world, how will it advantage me? I can see no way in which I can gain. It would be said, if any one should read this. Got! What a selfish point of view. He thinks only of his personal gain, not of his country. But confounded all I reply, answer me this. Do I exist for my country? Or does my country exist for me? For example, does man live for the sake of the church, or was the church created for man? Does not my country exist for my benefit? Surely it is so. Then again I am risking my all, my life. I live in danger, apprehension and great discomfort. I do all these things, and yet if as a reasonable man I ponder what advantage I am to gain from all these sacrifices I am adjudged selfish. It is all madness. I cannot fathom the meaning of these things. New Entry In position on the Bristol line of approach, the weather is bad. New Entry At Twenty Meters Once again death has stretched forth his bony fingers to catch me by the throat, and only by a chance have I wriggled free. Yesterday afternoon at five p.m. we sighted a small steamer flying Spanish colors and stirring for Cardiff. The weather was choppy but not too bad, and I decided to exercise the gun's crew, though I did not think there would be much doing, as the Spaniards soon give in. I opened fire at six thousand meters and pitched a shell ahead of her and ran up the signal to heave to. The wretched little craft paid no attention, and continued on her lumbering course. I suspected the presence of an Englishman on her bridge and determined to hit. This we did with our sixth shot, and she stopped dead and wallowed in the trough, with clouds of steam pouring out of her engine room. We had evidently got the engine room. As we closed her it was evident that a tremendous panic was taking place on board. The port sea-boat was being launched, but one fall broke and the occupants fell into the water. My navigator begged me to give her another, which I did, and hit her right aft. Two boat-loaves of gesticulating individuals now appeared from the shelter-rubber lee side, and began pulling wildly away from the ship. The navigator, whose eyes were dancing with excitement, was very keen to play with them by spraying the water with machine-gun bullets. But it seemed to me to be waste of ammunition, and I would not permit it. Meanwhile we had approached to within about four hundred meters of her port bow. I was debating whether to accelerate her sinking when I noticed that a fire had broken out aft, and I became possessed with a childish curiosity to see the fire being put out as she sank. It was a kind of contest between the elements. As I watched her I was startled to hear three or four reports from the region of the fire. Ammunition shouted the pilot with wide-opened eyes. In an instant I pressed the diving alarm as I realized our deadly peril. Fool that I had been she was a decoy ship. She must have realized on board that I had seen through their disguise, for as we began to move forward under the motors a trap-door near her bowels fell down. The white ensign was broken at the fore, and a four-inch gun opened fire from the embrasure that was revealed on her side. We were fortunate in that our cunning tower was already right ahead of the enemy, and as I dropped down into the cunning tower I saw that as she could not turn we were safe. A few shells plunged harmlessly into the water near our stern and then we were under. We came up to a periscope depth, and I surveyed her from a position off her stern. She was sinking fast, but I felt so furious at being nearly trapped that I could not resist giving her a torpedo. Detonation was complete, and a massive wreckage shot into the air as the hull of the ship disappeared. As to the two boats I left them to make the best course to land that they could. As they were fifty miles off the shore when I left them and it blew four, six, a few hours afterwards, I rather think they have joined the list of Missing. We are now steering due west to our second position. NEW ENTERY Received orders last night to return to base fourth width on the north about route—footnote. This means into the North Sea, round Scotland, end of footnote. I have shaped course to pass fifty miles north of Muckelflugge, no more Fair Island channel for me. NEW ENTERY Without landlid in sight, with the Norwegian coast looking very lovely under the snow, we never saw a ship from north of the Shetlands to this place when we saw a light cruiser of the town-class steaming southwest at high speed. She had probably been on patrol off this place, where the inner and outer leads join up, and ships have to leave the three-mile limit. She was well away from me, and an attack would have been useless. I did not shed any tears. I have lost much of the fire-eating ideas which filled my mind when I first joined this service. NEW ENTERY We are due off the Mole at 8 p.m. to-night, and my heart leaps with joy at the thought of seeing my Zoe. Already I can almost imagine her lovely arms round my neck, her face raised to mine, and all the other wonderful things that make her so glorious in my eyes. section 11 of Diary of a U-Boat Commander This recording is by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. The Diary of a U-Boat Commander by Stephen King Hall section 11 Note by A.T.N. Before quoting the next entry in Carl's journal, it is necessary to explain the situation which confronted him when he arrived in Seabrooga. In his absence his beloved Zoe had been arrested as an allied agent, and she was tried for espionage within a day or two of his arrival. There is no record of how he heard the news, and the blow he sustained was probably so terrible that whilst there was yet hope he felt no desire to write. But, as will be seen, there came a time when he turned to his journal as the last friend that remained to him. It is a curious fact that, with the exception of an entry at the beginning of this journal, Carl makes little mention of his mother and home at Frankfurt. Though he does not say so, it seems possible that his mother had heard of his entanglement with Zoe, and a barrier had risen between them. This suggestion gains strength from the fact that in his blackest moments of despair he never seems to consider the question of turning to Frankfurt for sympathy. Interest is naturally aroused as to the details of Zoe's trial. The available material consists solely of the long letter she wrote to him from Bruges Jail. It may be that one day the German archives of the period of occupation will reveal further details. Information on the subject is possibly at the disposal of the British Intelligence Service, but this would be kept secret. All we know on the matter is derived from the letter, which has been preserved inside the second volume of Carl's diary. There seems no doubt that she was caught red-handed, but to say more would be to anticipate her own words. It was a matter of some difficulty to know where best to introduce Zoe's letter, but with a view to securing as much continuity of thought in the story as possible it has been decided to quote it at this juncture, although he did not receive it until after he had made the entry in the journal which will be quoted directly after the letter. I would like to appeal to any reader who may happen to be engaged in administrative or reconstructive work in Belgium to communicate with me, care of Messier's Hutchinson, should he handle any papers dealing with Zoe's trial. A Tien. Zoe's letter. My best beloved. When you get this letter, cease to sorrow for what will have happened, for I shall be at rest, and in peace at last, freed from a world in which I have known bitter sorrow and until you came into my life but little joy. For these past months I am grateful to God if such a good being exists and regulates the conduct of a world gone mad. For in a few hours I am to die. It is harder for you than for me, while moment of agony I suffered, a moment that seemed to last a century, when, amidst the sea of faces that swam in a confused mass before me at the trial, I saw your eyes and the torture that you were suffering. When I saw your eyes I knew that the President had said I must die. I am glad that I was told this by you, the only one amongst all these men who loved me. I suppose the President spoke. I never heard him. But I saw your eyes and I knew. My darling. It was cruel of you to come. Cruel to me and cruel to yourself. But I loved you for being there. It showed me that up till the last you would stand by me. And until you read this you cannot know all the facts. That to you, as to the others, I must have seemed a woman's spy and that nevertheless you stood by me is to me a recollection of unsurpassable sweetness compared with which all other thoughts of you fade into insignificance. Know now, O well-beloved, that I was not unworthy of your love. I have a story to tell you, and I have such a little time left that I must write quickly. The priest who has been with me comes again an hour before the dawn, and he has promised to deliver these my last words of love into your hands. My real name is Zoe, Zinia, Olga, Spilitz, and I was born twenty-nine years ago at my father's country house at Inkovano, Narkonius-Fol. I am Polish, at least my father was, and my mother comes from the Don country. There was a day when my father's ancestors were princes in Poland. Poor Poland was torn by the vultures of Europe, just as your countrymen, my Carl, are tearing poor Belgium and France, and so my family lost estates year by year, and my grandfather is buried somewhere in the dreary steppes of Siberia because he dared to be a Polish patriot. My father bowed before the storm, and under my mother's influence he never became mixed up with politics. Thus he lived on his estates at Inkovano, and nursed them for my younger brother, Aleksandrovich, the child of his old age. Aleks would be nineteen now, had he lived. The estates were large as these things go in western Europe, but they were but a garden, as compared with the lands held by my great-grandfather, Boris Sibilitz. My father had a dream, and he dreamed this dream from the day Aleks was born, to the day they both died in each other's arms. My father dreamt that one day the Tsars would soften their heart to Poland, and race her up from the dust to a place amongst the nations, and my father dreamt that Aleksandrovich Sibilitz would become a leader of Poland, as his ancestors had been before him. And so my father nursed his estates, and pinched and saved, in preparation for the day when his beautiful dream should come true. My poor idealistic father never realized, oh, my Carl, that when one wants a thing one must fight to the death. Aleks was the apple of his eye, but I was much loved by my mother. Perhaps she dreamed a dream about me. I know not, but she determined that I should have all that was necessary. Paris, Berlin, Munich, Dresden, and a season in London. When I came home at twenty-one, perfectly educated according to the world, beautiful according to men, and dressed according to Paris, but I was only to find out how little I knew. My mother and I used to take a house in Warsaw for this season, and I met many notable men and women. In these days I, also, thought I could do something for Poland, but after two or three seasons I found that I, too, was only dreaming idle dreams. Oh, my beloved, beware of dreaming idle dreams. Listen, I once met the Prime Minister of all Russia at a reception. I captivated him, and thought, now, now I shall do something. I sat next to him at dinner. I talked of Poland, and I knew my subject. I talked brilliantly. He listened, he hung on my words, and he, the Prime Minister of all Russia, the Tsar's right-hand man, asked me to drive with him next day in his sledge. I, an almost unknown Polish girl. When I accepted I was in the seventh heaven of delight. Next day he called, and we sat forth, at a deserted spot in the woods near Warsaw he tried to kiss me. I struck him in the face with a butt of his own whip. That was why he had hung on my words, and that was why he had taken me for my drive. It was my Polish body that interested him, not Poland. The Prime Minister of Russia was confined to his room for two days, owing to an indisposition. How I laughed when I saw the bulletin in the paper, signed by two doctors, but it taught me a lesson. I never dreamt idle dreams again. No, I am wrong, my beloved. I dreamt an idle dream. A lovely dream about you and I. An after-the-war dream, if this war should ever end, but like other dreams it has ended, in dreams. But I must hurry, for my little watch tells me that one hour of my five is gone, and I have much to say. I could have married, and married brilliantly, but Poland held me back. I did not know what I could do for my country. It all seemed so hopeless, and yet I felt that perhaps one day—and I felt I ought to be single when that day came. It was not easy, my Carl. Sometimes it was hard. One man there was, this was his Christian name. He loved me madly, and sometimes I thought, but no matter. He is dead now. Killed at Tennenberg, and I—well, I will tell you more of my story. When the war broke out and clouded over that last beautiful summer in 1914, I wonder will there ever be another like it in your lifetime, my Carl. No, I don't think it can ever be quite the same after all this. We were all in the country. Alex was back from his school in Petrograd, and my father kept him at home for the autumn term. How well I remember the excitement, the mobilization, the blessing of the colours, the wave of patriotism which swept over the country! Even I, even I, under the influence of the specious proclamations that were issued broadcast by the government, with their promises of reform and redress for Poland after the war was over, felt more Russian than Polish. Lies, lies, lies, that was what the government promises were, my Carl. Under the stress of war the rottenness of that great white supple-cur, Russia, feared the revival of the Polish spirit. It might have been awkward, and so they lied with their tongues and their cheeks, and we simple Poles believed them. The peasantry flocked to their depots, little knowing whom they fought, but the proclamations which were read to them told them they fought for Poland, and we women worked and prayed for the success of Russian arms. Then the tide of war swept westward, and all day long and every day the troops and the guns and the motor-cars and the wagons rolled through the village to the west. Guarded hints in the papers seemed to say that all was not well in France, but France was so far away, and all the time the Russians were going west through our village. Mighty Russia was putting forth her strength, and the Austrian debacle was in full swing. These were great days, my Carl, for a Russian. Then one day the long columns of men and all the traffic seemed to hesitate and the sluggish westward flow, and then it stopped, and then it began to go east. The weeks went on, and one day, very, very faintly, there was a rumbling like a distant thunderstorm. It was the guns. The front was coming back. Have you ever seen forest fires, my Carl? We had them every autumn in our woods. If you have, then you know how all the small animals and the birds, the rabbits and the foxes, and perhaps a wolf or two, and the deer and the thrushes and the linets come out from the shelter of the trees, fleeing blindly from the Great Peril, anxious only to save their lives. So it was when the front came back. Heards of Mujiks, the old men, the women, the children, the poor little babies, struggled blindly eastwards through the village, pushing their miserable household goods on hand-carts or staggering along with loads on their backs, and weary children dragging at their arms. The human tide flowed eastwards round our house, begged perhaps a drink of water, and then wandered feverishly onwards. They knew not, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, where they were going. Their only destination was summed up in the words, away from the front, away from the ominous rumbling which began to get louder, away from that western horizon which was beginning to have a lurid glow at night's, like a sunset prolonged to dawn. Then as the Germans advanced more and more, the character of the tide changed. The civilian element was outnumbered by the military. Companies, battalions, brigades, sometimes in good order, sometimes in no order, marched through the village. They would often halt for a short time, and the officers would come up to the house where my mother and I gave them what we could. My father lived amongst his books and accounts, and bemoaned the extravagance of the war. Then there were the deserters, the stragglers, the walking wounded, the—but you know, my Carl, what an army and retreat means. I must proceed with my story, for time moves relentlessly on. One day, a desperately wounded officer, a young lieutenant of the guard, a boy of twenty-five, was taken out of a motor ambulance to die. The ambulance had stopped opposite our gates, and lying on his stretcher he had seen our garden—my garden. He knew he was to die, and he had begged with tears in his eyes to the doctor that he might be left in the garden. Who could refuse him? He died within two hours, amongst our flowers, with Alex and I at his side. Before he died he begged us, implored us, almost ordered us to move east before it was too late. We repeated his arguments to my father, but the letter was obdurate, and he swore that a regiment of angels would not move him from his ancestral home. So we made up our minds to stay. Things got worse and worse, and one day shells fell in the grounds and we hid in the cellars. That night all our servants ran away, and my father cursed them for cowards. Next day in the early morning we heard machine guns fire outside the village, and then all was still. At six o'clock Alex, white-faced, came running into the house. He had been down to the gates and he had seen the enemy. They were drunk, he said, and going down the street firing the houses and shooting the people as they came out. It seemed impossible, and yet it was true. It was growing dark when we heard shouts and saw lights, and from the top of the house I saw a crowd of singing and shouting soldiers with pine torches, half running, half walking up the drive. They masked in a body opposite the house. Paralyzed with terror I looked down on the scene and shuddered to see that every second man seemed to have a bottle. One of them fired a shot at the house, and next I remember a flood of light on the drive, and in the circle of light my father standing with hand raised. What my father intended could never be known for, as he paused and faced the mob a solitary shot rang out, and he fell in a huddled heap. As he fell a boyish voice from the door shouted, Murderers! It was Alex. With his little pistol I had given him for a birthday present in his hand. He ran forward, and standing over my father's body, head thrown back, he pointed his pistol at the mob and fired twice. A man dropped. There was a flash of steel. The crowd surged forward, and, oh, my Carl, they had murdered my beloved brother, my darling Alex. The next moment they were in the house. I escaped from my window on to the roof of the dairy, and from there down a water pipe across the yard to an old hayloft. For a long time they ran in and out of the house, like ants, looting and pillaging. And there was a great shout, and for some time not a soul came out of the house. I guessed they had got into the cellars. At about midnight I saw that the house was on fire. In a few minutes it was an inferno, and the drunken soldiers came pouring out, firing their rifles in all directions. I had found a piece of rope in the loft. One end I placed on a hook, and the other round my neck. I was close to the upper doors of the loft, with a drop to the courtyard, and thus I stayed, for I feared that some soldier more sober than the rest might explore the outhouses and find me. I was watching this unearthly spectacle, and never, my best beloved, did I conceive that man could become lower than the beasts. But before my eyes it was so, when I noticed that the great gates at the southern end of the courtyard were opening. As they opened I saw that beyond them was drawn up a line of men. An officer gave an order, and two machine-guns were placed in position at the gate entrance. Round the guns lay their crews, and the seething mass of revelers saw nothing. I felt that a fearful tragedy was impending, and as I held my breath with anxiety the officer gave a short, sharp movement with his hand, and a hideous rattle rose above all noises. The pandemonium that ensued was indescribable. Some ran helplessly into the burning house. Others ran round and round in circles. Others tried to get into the dairy. One man got upon its roof and fell back dead as soon as his head appeared above the outer wall. The place was surrounded. It was horrible. A few tried to rush for the gate. They melted away like snow before the sun as their bodies met the pitiless stream of bullets. I suppose two hundred men were killed in as many seconds. The machine-guns ceased fire. Ambulance parties came into the yard, collected the dead and living, and within half an hour there was not a soul save myself in the place. Discipline had received its oblation of men's lives. As an example it was one of the most wonderful things I have ever known in your wonderful army, my curl. But it was terrible. Terribly cruel. I never knew what became of my mother, though I feel she is dead. Murdered perhaps like my father and my darling Alex. Or perhaps she hid somewhere in the house and remained petrified with terror till the flames came. Next morning I left my hiding-place and walked about. Another German was to be seen. But in the wood was a huge newly made grave. It was all open warfare then, and this flying column, which was miles in advance of the main body, had moved on. The house was a smoking mass of ruins, but the farm-buildings had been spared, and had let out all the poor animals and turned them into the woods so that they might have their chance. All day I searched for my father and brother, but not a sign was to be seen, and at dusk I stood alone, veined and broken amongst the ruins of my ancestors' home. As I looked at the scene of desolation and I contrasted what had been my life twenty-four hours before and what it was then, something seemed to snap in my brain, and for the first time I cried. Oh, the blessed relief of those tears, my Carl, for I was a poor, weak, helpless girl, and alone with death and bitterness all round me. Late that night I hid once more in my hayloft, and next morning I left in Covano forever. Before I left I made a vow, it is because of this vow, my beloved, that I am to die, for I vowed by the body of our Saviour and the murdered bodies of my family that whilst life was in me and the war was maintained, for so long would I work unceasingly for the Allies against Germany. As the war ran its fiery course I have seen more and more that the Allies are the only ones who will do anything for Poland, my beloved country, so have I been strengthened in my vow. I struck south of my feet as a poor girl, I, the daughter of a princely family of Poland. No hardships were too great for me, provided I could reach Allied territory. I traveled from village to village as the singing girl, and once I was driven away with stones by villagers set upon me by a fanatical priest. I came by Krakow and across the Carpathians, helped to pass the lines by a Hungarian lieutenant, but I tricked him of his reward. I was not ready for that sacrifice. Then across the Hungarian plains to Budapest, where I remained three weeks singing in a third-rate café to make some money for my next stage. But I had to leave too soon, the old story, this time it was the proprietor's son. What beasts men are, my Carl? Gangnet to me you were above all other men, a prince amongst your fellows, and never did I love you so distractedly as that first night at the shooting-box, when I read the scorn in your eyes as you rejected me. I have no shame in telling you this. Am I not already in the grave? And then I must be silent, and could only await your coming. After many struggles, worrisome to relate, I came to Hermannstadt, and there whilst pushing my trade as a dancer came into touch with a Hungarian band of smugglers working across the mountain passes between Eastern Hungary and Romania. I did certain work for these men, and in return crossed with them one bitter night in a thunderstorm into Romania. At Bucharest I got a good engagement, and when I had saved a thousand marks I bought a passport for five hundred and came to Serbia, then staggering beneath the great Austrian offensive. Once again I was in the horrors of a retreat, but I escaped, reaching Valona, and crossed to Brindisi by the aid of a French officer to whom I told my story and who believed me. His name is Pierre Le Mansour, and he lives at Bordeaux. If fortune places him in your power, be kind to him, my Carl, for your Zoe's sake. I came to Rome and then to Paris. I stayed here three weeks singing in a cabaret. Whilst here I tried to advance my plans in vain. What could I, a small girl, do for the Allies? The Embassy laughed at me, all except one young attaché who tried to make love to me. Then I thought of England. England and her cold hard islanders, phlegmatic and movements, slow to hate, slow to move, but once they were proud. Ah, they never let go of these islanders. One of their poets has said, the mills of God grind slowly, but they grind exceeding small. That, my Carl, is like England. They are your most terrible enemies, and you know it. Do not be angry with me when you read this. For me it is Poland. For you, Germany. Where I am going in a few hours there is no Poland, no Germany, no England, no war, and perhaps, perhaps no love. You and I, Carl, have loved too well per chance, but our love was above even the love of countries. God made the love of men and women. Then men and women created their countries. I see the future before me, Carl, and I foresee that the struggle will be at the end of all things between England and Germany. One will be in the dust. Thus I crossed to England and was swallowed up in the great city of London. England has always had a corner of her calculating heart for the small nations, and in London there is a Polish organization. I applied there, and one day I was taken to the foreign office, and found myself alone with a great Englishman. His name was, No, I promised, and it will not matter to you. For though he gave me my chance, I have no love for him, and he will never be in your power. Even as I write these words, he has probably taken a list from a locked safe and neatly ruled a red line through the name Soetsubelitz. I tell you they know everything, these Englishmen. I told him my story, and then he asked me whether I was prepared to do all things for the Allies. I told him I was. He then said that I could go as agent for a back area in Belgium, and my centre would be Bruges. I agreed, and asked him innocently enough how I was to live in Bruges. He looked up from his desk and said, You will be given facilities to cross the Belgium-Holland Frontier as a German singer. And then, I asked, You will go to Bruges and make friends with an army officer. He must be high up on the staff. I guessed what he meant, but hoped against hope, and I said, How? I can still see his fish-like face, hair brushed back with scrupulous care, as without a shadow of emotion he looked up, puffed his pipe, and said in a matter of fact tones. You have a pretty face and an excellent figure. Need I say more? I could have struck him in the face. I was speechless, my mind a whirl of conflicting emotions. I was roused by the level tones again. Is it too much for Poland? Oh, the cunning of the man, he knew my weakness. Mechanically, I agreed. Certain details were settled and he pressed a bell. Within five minutes I was walking back to my lodgings. Thanks to a marvellous organization which your police will never discover, my Carl, within three weeks I was singing on the Bruges Music Hall stage and accepted without question as being what I was not, a German artist from Dunsig. The men were soon around me, but I had no use for youngsters with money. I wanted a man with information. At last I found my man, the Colonel. He was on the headquarters staff of the Eleventh Army, the Army of Occupation in Belgium, when I first met him. Subsequently he went back to regimental work, but by the time he was killed, and to realize what a release that meant for me you would have had to have lived with him. I had established regular sources of information concerning which I will say no more. Let your country's agents find them, if they can. This must I say for the Colonel. He was a brute and a drunkard, but in his own gross way he loved me, and he licked my boots at my desire, but I had to pay the price. You are a man, and with all your loving sympathy you can but dimly realize what this costs a woman. To me it was a dual sacrifice of honour and life, but it was for Poland, and the memories of my parents and Alex steeled me and strengthened my resolution, and so, and so, my Carl, I paid the price. My special work was on the military side, and consisted in making quarterly reports on the general dispositions of large bodies of troops, the massing of cores for spring offensives, and big pushes and hammer blows. Then you came into my life. When the Colonel used to go away it was my habit to mix in the demi-mondaned society of Bruges, to try and live a few hours in which I could forget. Oh, don't think the worst. That sort of thing had no attraction for me. I didn't seek oblivion in that direction. I had never even kissed anyone in Bruges until I kissed you that first night we met at dinner. I was attracted to you from the very first. The Colonel was due back in a few days, and I suddenly felt mad and kissed you. I suppose you put me down as one of the usual kind, out to sell myself at a price varying between a good dinner and the rent of a flat. You will now know that I had already mortgaged my body to Poland. Then in a few days later you will remember we went down for that wonderful day in the forest, and for the first time, Carl, I began to see that I was really caring for you, and a faint realization of the dangers and impossibilities towards which we were drifting crossed my mind. Do you remember how silent I was on the drive back? In a fashion, my Carl, I could foresee dimly a little of what was going to happen. I had a presentiment that the end would be disaster. But I thrust the idea away from me. Then came the day, just before one of your trips. Oh, the agony, my darling, of those days, each an age and length, when you were at sea, when you told me at the flat that you loved me. How I longed to throw my arms round your neck and abandoned myself to your embraces. But I was still strong enough in those days to hold back for both our sakes. Each time we were together I loved you more and more, and each time when you had gone I seemed to see with clearer vision the fatal and inevitable ending. But I refused to give up the first real happiness that had been mine in my short and stormy life, and so I clung desperately to my idle dream. I prayed. I prayed for hours, Carl, but the war might end. For I felt that in this lay our only hope. But what are one woman's prayers, a sinful woman's prayers, to the creator of all things, and the war ground on in its endless agony just as it does to-night. Carl, Carl, will this torture ever end? But I must hurry. There is still much to tell you, and time goes on relentlessly just like the war. It is only life that ends. Then came the days I took you to the shooting-box for the first time, and that night I broke down, and unashamed offer you myself. Think not too badly of your Zoe, my Carl, when a woman loves, as I do. What is convention? A nothing, a straw on the waters of life. I wanted you for my own, passionately and desperately. For I feared that any moment the end might come, and to die without having felt your arms around me would have added a thousand tortures to death. Though I could have welcomed death with joy when I saw the look of sorrowful contempt which you cast upon me that night. Heaven's above. But you were strong, my Carl. I am not ugly, and yet you resisted, and I hated and loved you at the same time. Oh, I know that sounds impossible, but it isn't for a woman. I slept little that night, and feeling that I could not look you in the face in the morning, I left for a bruise before you got up. I felt that I could trust you not to try and find out the secret of the shooting box. What a relief it is to be able to tell you everything frankly, and how I hated the perpetual game of deception which I had to play. I used to rack my brains for answers to your perpetual question, Why won't you marry me? It was a desperate risk taking you down to the forest, but you loved me so much that you never questioned the reasons I gave you for my secrecy. I can tell you now, Carl, that in the early days when I used to disappear from bruise it was to the shooting box that I went. But I will write more of that later. Did you suffer the same agony as I did before you left for Keele, and your pride would not allow you to come to me? You understand now, my darling, why I could never marry you, and when the colonel was killed he became harder than ever. Once during that terrible interview before you went up the Russian coast, I nearly gave way and promised to marry you. But how could I? I had sworn my vow, and even tonight, though I stand in the shadow of death, I do not regret my vow. It is inconceivable that I could have married you and carried on my work, a spy on my husband's country, and if I ever thought of trying to do this impossible thing, a vision which has partially come true always restrained me. I saw a submarine officer disgraced and perhaps sentenced to death because his wife had been convicted as a spy. No, it was impossible. But if I could not marry you, I still wanted your love. When you went up the Russian coast and I heard of your return in a submarine terribly wrecked, I guessed what you must have gone through and determined to see you, but when I entered your room and saw you lying open-eyed on your bed, with no one but a clumsy soldier to nurse you, I could have wept. You know the rest, you can perhaps hardly remember how I led you to my car and took you down to the forest. Oh, Carl, are you angry with me for what happened? Do you sometimes think that I took an unfair advantage of your weakness? Please, please forgive me. You were so helpless, and I loved you so. Then came those unforgettable weeks whilst your boat was being repaired. Weeks which opened to me the door of the paradise I was never to enter. Oh, Carl, I pray that all those memories may remain sweet and unclouded all your life. Think of those days when you think of your Zoe. Alas, it came to an end too soon, and you left for the Atlantic. When you came back, all was over. I had been caught at last. The evidence at the trial was clear enough. I have no complaints. I was fairly caught. You remember the big open space in front of the shooting box? I do not mind saying now that five times have I been taken up from there in an English aeroplane, and landed there again after two days. Each time I took a full report on military affairs. Not a word of naval news, my Carl. You will remember I never tried to find out you-boat information. I even warned you to be cautious. Well, they caught me as I landed. The English boy who had flown me back tried hard to save me, but it only cost him his own life. My first thought was of you, and there is not a jot of evidence against you. Save only your friendship for me. Remember this fact if they persecute you. Admit nothing. Believe nothing they tell you. Deny everything. They have no evidence, but they are certain to try and trap you. It was noble of you, Carl, to engage Monsieur Labaudin in my defense, but it was useless and may do you harm. I also know of your efforts with the Governor. I hoped nothing from him, but what you did has made me ready to die. I tremble lest you are compromised. If only I could feel absolutely certain that I have not dragged you down in my ruin I should face the rifles with a smile. For my sake, be careful, Carl. When it is all over, cause a few little flowers to cover my resting place if this is permitted for a spy. Order them. Do not place them yourself. You must not be compromised. I have told my story, and the end is very near. What else is there to say? Mere words are empty husks when I try to express my thoughts of you. Do not sorrow for your Zoe to whom you have given such happiness. I am not afraid to die and cross into the unknown which, however terrible it is, cannot be much worse than this awful war. Carl, Carl, how I long to kiss you and feel your strong arms crushing the breath from this body of mine which has cost so much sorrow. Oh, Mother Mary, support me in this hour of trial. I cannot leave you. May the saints guard you and keep you through all the perils of war and grant that we meet again in the perfect peace of eternity. FOREVER You are devoted and adoring, Zoe. End of Section. King Hall Section. 12 Carl's Diary Resumed She is dead. They have killed her, my Zoe, my adorable darling, and I am still alive, under close arrest. Perhaps they will shoot me, too, in their insatiable thirst for blood. Oh, if they would. Perhaps, my Zoe, if I could only die and leave this useless world behind, I might find you in the mysterious regions where your spirit now dwells. Oh, is it well with you, Zoe? Give me a sign, a little sign, that all is well. I have knelt in prayer and asked for a sign, but nothing comes. All is a blank, forbidding and mysterious. Is God angry with us, my Zoe, that we have sinned before him? Surely. Surely he understands. He must have mercy on me if he is going to make me go on living. If this is my punishment, I can bear it. I will live without you happily if only I may know that all is well with you. New Entry Your letter, Zoe. Can you read these words as I write? Can you sense my thoughts? Speak. Ah! I thought I heard your voice, and it was only the laughter of a woman in the street. Your letter has filled me with joy and sorrow. I read and re-read the wonderful words in which you say you love me from the beginning, but when you plead that I shall not turn in loathing from your memory, with these words you smash me to the ground. Most Glorious Woman I never loved you so well and so passionately as the day you stood at the trial. Ringed round with the wolves, the clever lawyers, the stolid witnesses, the ponderous books, the cynical air of religious solemnity with which the machinery of the law thinly cloaks its lust for blood, for a life. Even when my ears heard the sentence, I could not believe it would be read out. The firing party, the chair, the bandage. Oh, God! Spare me these awful thoughts. To think of your breasts lacerated by the, oh, this is unendurable! Stop, madman, that I am! New Entry I am calmer now. I have read your letter again and rescued the journal from the grate into which I flung it. The fire was out. I am not sorry. My journal is all I have left, and in its pages are enshrined small, feeble word-pictures of paradise on earth. To read them is to catch an echo of the music we both love so well. Music You were all music to me, my Zoe. Your voice, your movements, your caresses all seemed to me to speak of music. I ask myself, I shall always ask myself until the last hour, whether all that could be done to save you was done. I tried to telegraph to the Kaiser for you, Zoe, but the wire never got further than Bruges Post Office. They stopped it and put me under arrest. It was only open arrest, my darling, and on that last awful night I forced them to let me see the governor. I, Carl Unshank, knelt at his feet and begged for your life. He simply said, You are mad. I left the palace under close arrest. Was ever woman's nobleness of character so exemplified as in your life? Be comforted, Zoe, that in all my black sorrow I cling desperately to my pride in your strength. I long to shout abroad what you did and why you would never marry me, to tell all the gaping world that when you died a martyr to duty was killed. I am so unworthy of what you did for me, my darling, and it tortures me with mental rendings to think that whilst I prided myself in my strength of mind I was dragging you through the fires of hell. When I think of those six weeks we had together my brain says, And they might have been months had you not spurned her in the forest. Oh, Zoe, if the priests say truth and all things are now revealed to you, forgive me for this act of mine. Come to me in spirit and give me mental peace. As I write like this, as if it was a letter that you might read, I am comforted a little. I rely utterly on the scope which I struggle to change into belief that you can read this and know my thoughts. For when I think that had things been otherwise you might have been leaning over my chair at this moment and running your cool fingers through my stiff hair. When I think of this, my darling, the full realization comes to me of the gulf which must divide us for some period and the lines of this page run mistily before my eyes. Zoe, my Zoe, strange things have happened in this war. Wives declare that they have seen their husbands, mothers have felt the presence of their sons. If the powers permit, come to me once again, I implore you and give me strength to live my life alone. New entry. Examine before the court of inquiry today. Fools! Can't they realize that I don't care if they do shoot me? In the mess people avoid me. What do I care? Not one of them is worthy to stand on the same soil that holds her beloved body. They have buried her in the castle grounds. In accordance with her wishes I have arranged for flowers. Perhaps one day when all this is over I may be able to live here and tend the place where she sleeps, free at last from all her cares. New entry. At the court of inquiry they tried to cross-examine me on our life together. Dolts! What do they aim at proving that I loved you? I hardly listened. When they finished the evidence the president asked me if I had anything to say. Anything to say. I felt like telling them they were cogs in the most monstrous machine for manufacturing sorrow and destruction that mankind had ever devised. I could have shaken my fist in their solemn faces and shouted, Beasts! You murdered her! You destroyed that most wonderful woman who lowered herself to love me. Actually, there was a long silence. And then the vice-president, Captain Fruling-Zone, said, Speak! We wish you well. It was the first touch of sympathy. The only sign of humanity I had received in all those awful days. And it touched my stubborn heart and the long four tears flowed at last. I murmured, Gentlemen, I am no traitor, but I loved her as my own soul. Dissolve the court. Remove the prisoner. Like the clash of iron gates, officialdom came into its own again. New entry. Oh! I am not to be shot. Not even imprisoned. Don't fall in love with enemy agents again. That summarized their verdict. It is all horribly funny. The real reason is that they need me. I am a trained and skillful slaughterer on the seas. I am an essential part of the great machine. And they haven't got any spares. I was in the mess yesterday when the English papers we get from Amsterdam arrived. Oh! A pretty surprise awaited the first man who opened the Times. These English had published the names of 150 U-boat commanders they had caught. There they all were. Christian names and all complete. The only thing missing was a blank space in which to fill in our names when the time comes. There was a silent meal last night, and next morning some rat of a Belgian had posted the list on the gatepost of the mess. The machine has offered five hundred marks for his apprehension. How foolish! As if by shooting him it would take any names off the long list. New entry. I am to sail at dawn tomorrow. I shall not be sorry to get away for a space from this place with its mingled memories of delight and death. New entry. Back again, and I haven't written a word for three weeks. My billet last trip was off Finisterre. I sighted two convoys, but there were destroyers there. They are so black and swift I don't go near them. I don't want to die in a U-boat. It's not worthwhile. It is easy to avoid these convoys. I dive and make a great fuss of attacking. Then I steer divergently. Nobody knows where the enemy is except me. I am the only one who looks through the periscope. I take good care of that. And then how I curse and swear when I announce that the convoy has altered course and there is no chance of getting into attack. None of them are so disappointed as I am. The mines get on my nerves. There is no way of dodging them, and Lord, how they sprout on the Flanders coast. I am to go out in six days. It is very little rest. I believe they want to kill me. But I won't die. Not I. I went to Hergrave yesterday for the first time. I had thought I should weep, but I did not. In fact, it left me quite unmoved. I feel she's not really dead. She comes to me sometimes, always at night when I am alone and when we are at sea. There's nothing very tangible, but I catch an echo of her voice in the surge of the sea along the casing or the sound of the breeze as it plays along the aerial. And so I will not die until she calls me, for up to the present her messages have told me to live and endure. New entry. A very awkward incident took place last night. We were off the nays and saw a steamer some distance away. We dived to attack. When we were about a mile away I had a look at her and something about her put me off. I half thought she was a decoy ship and I privately determined I would not attack. I steered a course which brought me well on her quarter, and as soon as I saw that it was impossible to get into position to fire I increased speed on the engines and shook the whole boat in efforts which were ostensibly directed to getting her into position. At length I eased speed and bitterly exclaimed that my luck was out. The first lieutenant suggested that we should give her gunfire, but I pointed out that I had good reason to suspect her of being a wolf in sheep's clothing, and as he had not seen her he could hardly question my judgment. I was going forward when I accidentally overheard the navigator and the engineer talking in the wardrobe. I listened. The engineer said, The captain doesn't seem to have the luck he used to command. Or else he has lost skill, replied Ebert. We never fired a torpedo at all last trip, and it looks as if we are following that president this time. I had heard enough, and without there realizing my presence I returned to the control room. I considered the situation and came to the conclusion that they suspected nothing, but it was evident that their minds were running on lines of thought which might be dangerous. I looked at my watch and saw that there were still two hours of daylight left, and then decided to play a trick on them all. I relieved the first lieutenant at the periscope, and when a decent interval of about half an hour had elapsed I saw a ship. This vessel of my imagination, a veritable flying Dutchman in fact, I proceeded to attack, and after about twenty minutes of frequent alterations of speed and course I electrified the boat by bringing the bow-tubes to the ready. The usual delay was most artistically arranged, and then I fired. With secret amusement I watched the two expensive weapons of war rushing along, but destined to sink ingloriously in the ocean instead of burying themselves in the vitals of a ship. An oath from myself and an order to take the boat to twenty metres. With gloomy countenance I curtly remarked, the port torpedo broke surface and then dived underneath her. The starboard one missed a stern. So far all had gone well. But ten minutes later I nearly made a fatal error. We had been diving for several hours, the atmosphere was bad, and as it was dusk I decided to come up, ventilate, and put a charge on the batteries. I gave the necessary orders and was on my way up the conning-tower to open the outer hatch. The coxson had just announced that the boat was on the surface when a terrible thought paralysed me, and I clung helplessly to the latter trying to think out the situation. It had just occurred to me that as soon as the officers and crew came on deck they would naturally look for the steamer we had recently fired at. This ship in the time interval which had elapsed would still be in sight. As I came down the first lieutenant was at the periscope looking round the horizon. Quickly I thrust the youth from the eyepiece and as calmly as I could said I thought I heard propellers. Half an hour later we surfaced for the night. I had been wondering ever since whether they suspect, for the three of them were talking in the wardroom after dinner and stopped suddenly when I came in. I must be careful in future. New entry. I was sent for this morning by the Commodore's office and handed my appointment as senior lieutenant at the barracks Wilhelm Shaffen. No explanation, though I suspected something of the sort was coming, as three days after we got in from my last trip I was examined by the medical board attached to the flotilla. So I am to leave the U-boat service and leave it under a cloud. It is a sad come-down from captain of a U-boat to lieutenant in barracks, a job reserved for the medically unfit for sea service. Am I sorry? No? I think I'm glad. Life here at Bruges is one long painful episode. No one speaks to me in the mess. I am left severely alone with my memories. The night before last I found a revolver in my room and attached to it was a piece of paper bearing the words from a friend. Perhaps at Wilhelm Shaffen it will be different. And yet, when I went down to the boat at noon and collected my personal affairs and stepped over her side for the last time, I could not check a feeling of great sadness. We had endured much together, my boat and I, and the parting was hard. New entry at Barracks. As I suspected when I was appointed here my job is deadly to a degree and my main duty is to sign leave passes. Our great effort in France has failed and now the Allies react furiously. The Great War machine is strained to its utmost capacity. Can it endure the load? Our proper move is to paralyze the Allied offensive by striking with all our naval weight at his cross-channel communications. The U-boat war is too slow and time is not on our side whilst the hammer-blow down the channel might do great things. But we have no naval imagination and who am I that I should advance an opinion? A discredited lieutenant in Barracks, that's all. Worse and worse. There are rumors of troubles in the fleet taking place under certain conditions. It is the beginning of the end. Last night the high seas fleet were ordered to weigh at 8 a.m. this morning. A mutiny broke out in the Kernig and quickly spread. By 9 a.m. half a dozen ships were flying the red flag. And today Wilhelm Schoffen is being administered by the Council of Soldiers and Sailors. There has been little disorder. The men have been unanimous in declaring that they would not go to sea for a last useless massacre, a last oblation on the bloodstain alders of war. Can they be blamed? Of what use would such sacrifice be? Yet to an officer it is all very sad and disheartening. I've seen enough to sicken me of the whole German system of making war, and yet if the call came I know I would gladly go forth and die when Tudet perdue for l'honneur. Such instincts are bred deep into the men of families such as mine. We approach the culmination of events. Today Germany has called for an armistice. It has been inevitable since our allies began falling away from us like rotten print. The terms will doubtless be hard. New entry. Heaven's above, but the terms are crushing. All the U-boats to be surrendered. The high seas fleet interned. Why not say surrendered straight out? It will come to that unless we blow them up in German ports. The end of Kaiserdom has come. We are virtually a republic. It is all like a dream. New entry. We have signed, and the last shot of the World War has been fired. Here everything is confusion. The saner elements are trying to keep order. The roughs are going round the dockyard and ships looting freely. Better we should steal them than the English, and there is no government so all is free, are two of their cries. There has been little shooting in the streets and it is not safe for officers to move about in uniform, though on the whole I have experienced little difficulty. I was summoned to-day before the local council, which is run by a man who was a petty officer of signals in the Kernig. He recognized me and looked away. I was instructed to take U-122 over to Harwich for surrender to the English. I've made no difficulty. Someone has got to do it, and I verily believe I am different to all emotions. We sail in convoy on the day after tomorrow. That is to say, if the crew can descend to fuel the boat in time, three looters were executed today in the dockyard, and this has had a steadying effect on the worst elements. New entry. I went on board U-122 today, and on showing my authority which was signed by the council, which has now become the Council of Soldiers, Sailors, and Workmen. The crew of the boat held a meeting at which I was not invited to be present. At his conclusion the coxing came up to me and informed me that a resolution had been carried by seventeen boats to ten to the effect that I was to be obeyed as captain of the boat. I begged him to convey to the crew my gratification and express the hope that I should give satisfaction. I'm afraid the sarcasm was quite lost on them. New entry. We are within sixty miles of Harwich, and I expect to cite the English cruisers any moment. I wrote some days ago that I was incapable of any emotion. I was wrong, as I have been so often during the last two years. In fact, I have come to the conclusion that I am no psychologist. I don't believe we Germans are any good at psychology, and that's the root reason why we failed. I do feel emotion. It's terrible. The shame, the humiliation is unbearable. I wonder how the English will behave. What a day of triumph for them. The signalman has just come down and reported British cruisers right ahead. It will soon be over. I must go up on deck and exercise my functions as elected captain of U-122 and representative of Germany in defeat. One last effort is demanded, and then... Note. This is the last sentence in the diary. It is probable that he suddenly had to hurry on deck, and in the subsequent confusion forgot to rescue his diary from the locker in which he had thrust it. ATN.