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surfaced, at first just the conning-tower showing like a shark’s fin but then she came up with a rush until all the shiny, slimy black back of her was clear of the water. The searchlight lit her up and Smith saw she was down by the stern. The twelve-pounder slammed and the shell burst on the bull just aft of the conning-tower. Then the six-pounders opened up. All the guns were firing at virtually point-blank range, well under a thousand yards and Smith could see them hitting. Figures showed in the conning-tower, spilled over on to the deck and into the sea. The twelve-pounder scored a hit on the conning-tower and an instant later there came an explosion from somewhere forward in the U-boat that drowned the guns’ hammering and the bow lifted, dropped. As it did so the U-boat rolled over. She lay there bottom-up for only seconds then slipped down by the stern and out of sight, leaving a stain of oil. The guns ceased firing.
    Some men had got out, but — survivors? Smith remembered the hail of fire that had burst on and around the U-boat and thought it was unlikely anyone had survived. All the same he ordered, “Slow ahead both. Port ten. Mr. Sanders! Nets over the side in case of survivors!”
    “Aye, aye, sir!” Sanders was grinning. The crew of the twelvepounder were cheering. As Sanders went to the ladder the killick slapped his back and Sanders laughed. Smith thought that was good. This one action had made Sanders accepted.
    He rubbed at his face again but it seemed to have no feeling. He knew he was not grinning, that he was the only man aboard standing quite still, not elated, expressionless. As he had been throughout the action. He stayed apart and he could not help it.
    Sparrow
crept down on the circle of oil with the searchlight’s beam shifting over it and Smith thought that was a luxury they must soon dispense with. If there were men in the sea then Sanders and his party in the waist would see them now or not at all.
    “Port bow, sir!” That was the look-out, pointing, but Smith had already seen him. Or them. At first he thought there was only one man but as his order to Gow edged
Sparrow
over he saw there was one swimmer supporting another.
    “Stop both.” The way came off
Sparrow
and she drifted down past the men in the sea. Smith made out two oil-smeared faces turned up to him, slipping past below him as he leaned out over the bridge screen. He saw Sanders’s party in the waist with the nets hanging down the side and two men already down on the nets, their legs in the sea, held on by lines in the hands of the men on the deck above them. So they could cling to the nets with one hand while reaching out to grab at the swimmer and the man he supported.
    Smith used the bridge megaphone to urge, “Quick as you can, Mr. Sanders!” He saw Sanders lift a hand in acknowledgment and turned to call up at the searchlight: “Douse!”
    The light went out. Smith took a restless pace across the bridge so he could see the drifter. She was no longer a pillar of flame, had burned down to her water-line. Between her and
Sparrow
was a boat pulling towards the thirty-knotter. His gaze went beyond it, looking worriedly for the airman who had been there, it seemed so long ago though it had been only minutes. Had
Sparrow
run him down in her twisting pursuit of the U-boat? It was possible. They would have to search for him though they had been too long in these waters already.
Sparrow
was a sitting duck for the shore batteries lying stopped like this and lit up by the last of the burning
Judy
, with her only movement the slow roll and recover as a beam sea thrust at her. Under his breath he urged, “Come on, Sanders! Come
on
!” But he kept his mouth shut. The men were as aware as he of the danger and working as fast as they could.
    With the engines stopped their voices came up to him, breathless as they laboured in the waist. In the light from the drifter he could see them and he glanced uneasily towards the unseen shore