note: Submarine folk are a people apart.]

Behind us lay, splendid and somewhat theatric, the mottled marble, stiff
white napery, and bright silver of a fashionable dining-hall. Only a few
guests were at hand. At our little table sat the captain of a submarine
who was then in London for a few days on richly merited leave, a
distinguished young officer of the "mother ship" accompanying our
underwater craft, and myself. It is impossible to be long with submarine
folk without realizing that they are a people apart, differing from the
rest of the naval personnel even as their vessels differ. A man must
have something individual to his character to volunteer for the service,
and every officer is a volunteer. An extraordinary power of quick
decision, a certain keen, resolute look, a certain carriage; submarine
folk are such men as all of us like to have by our side in any great
trial or crisis of our life.

Guests began to come by twos and threes--pretty girls in shimmering
dresses, young army officers with wound-stripes and clumsy limps. A
faint murmur of conversation rose, faint and continuous as the murmur of
a distant stream.

Because I requested him, the captain told me of the crossing of the
submarines. It was the epic of an heroic journey.

[Sidenote: How the submarines crossed the Atlantic.]

[Sidenote: The mother-ship and submarines leave.]

"After each boat had been examined in detail, we began to fill them with
supplies for the voyage. The crew spent days manoeuvring cases of
condensed milk, cans of butter, meat, and chocolate, down the
hatchways--food which the boat swallowed up as if she had been a kind of
steel stomach. Until we had it all neatly and tightly stowed away, the
_Z_ looked like a corner grocery store. Then, early one December
morning, we pulled out of the harbor. It wasn't very cold, merely raw
and damp, and it was misty dark. I remember looking at the winter stars
riding high just over the meridian. The port behind us was still and
dead, but a handful of navy-folk had come to one of the wharves to see
us off. Yes, there was something of a stir--you know, the kind of stir
that's made when boats go to sea: shouted orders, the plash of dropped
cables, vagrant noises. It didn't take a great time to get under way; we
were ready, waiting for the word to go. The flotilla--mother-ship, tugs
and all--was out to sea long before the dawn. You would have liked the
picture: the immense stretch of the gray