In this way every foot of
water within the great circle of the horizon is under constant
supervision night and day by a small army of lookouts, armed with
binoculars and gun telescopes.
And so our battleship goes on through the night. On the bridge all is
quiet. Officers move to and fro with padded footfalls, and the throb of
the great engines is felt rather than heard. The wind begins to change,
and presently the captain glancing out the door of the chart-house
clucks his chagrin. For the night has begun to reveal itself, thanks, or
rather, no thanks, to the moon, which has torn away from a shrouding
mass of clouds and sends its rays down upon the waters of the sea. It
had been a fine night to dodge the lurking submarine, but now the silver
light of the moon, falling upon the leaden side of the battleship,
converts her into a fine target.
"Nature is certainly good to the Germans," chuckles an officer to a
companion, taking care that the captain does not hear.
"Yes," comes the sententious reply. The lookouts grow more rigid, for
whereas formerly they could see nothing, objects on the water are now
pencilled out in luminous relief.
Deep down below the water there is a listening "ear"--a submarine
telephone device through which a submarine betrays its presence; any
sound the undersea boat makes, the beating of the propellers, for
instance, is heard by this ear, and in turn by the ear of the man who
holds the receiver.
Presently the man who is on detector watch grows tense.
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