“Bum!” gasped Rory, outraged. “Wi' ladies present? 'Tis indecent. I'm ashamed o' ye, Jake Levine!” He brooded darkly as I sipped my tea. "And I still say this is a bad business. In the harbor, at least we had shore batteries and a deefensive position. But that wasna gude eno' for the brass. No! So here we are, alone and limpin' in the middle o' the gory Mediterranean, prey to God knows what yon rascals will send to plague us! 'Tis a wonder we ha' na already been attacked, that it is.”

“Calm down, Rory,” I laughed, “and give your ulcers a rest. These waters are reasonably safe. Bet you five bob we don't even sight an enemy, let alone … Hey!”

What a prophet! My forecast ended in a startled yelp as the unmistakable gurroom! of a deck gun shuddered through the ship. The Grampus bucked and quivered. Tea scalded my wrists. Voices rose in excited query, and were lost in the strident clamor of the ship's alarm system.

And over it all: “I'll take that bet!” bawled Auld Rory.

I broke from the galley and raced toward the radio room. Weaving through the passageway, I met members of the gun crew scurrying from topside to their submersion posts. I grabbed Rob Enslow's arm.

“Planes?”

“The bloody sky's full of 'em!”

I heard their motors now, droning with the fretful tumult of a broken wasps' nest. The Jerries had not wanted to blast us in harbor, but were coming out to catch us in open sea. The intercommunicating system hummed to life. The Old Man's clipped, unhurried voice was oddly reassuring.

“All hands, stand by! Rig for diving!”

The valves opened, the wheeze of escaping air mingled with the gurgle of ballast water, and we nosed under. I reached my compartment and lurched to the instrument panel. Walt Roberts, ship's yeoman, was there. He glanced up.

“You all right, Jake?”

“Sure,” I said. “You?”

“Top hole.” Then, after a moment: “We're under.”

I nodded. “Yeah. We'll be okay now, unless some of those big babies carry depth-bombs."

“That's so,” said Walt. “But maybe they didn't this time.”

“Probably not,” I decided. “It must be a land-based flight, out of Bardia. I'll bet there's not a depth-bomb in the lot of them …”

Or that's what I started to say. I don't know if I ever finished the sentence or not.

For suddenly there sounded a dull, booming roar. The Grampus jerked as though struck by a monstrous fist. Then it seemed to shake itself and leap, like a sailfish fighting the hook. Again the alarm bell dinned—then stopped abruptly as the lights flared to brief, eye-searing brightness and went out A hot, tingling pulsation, like electricity gone mad, flowed through and twisted me in knots. The Grampus tilted, my feet flew out from under me and I slid head first across the slanting deck. My head struck the bulkhead. That's all I remember.