One Torpedo, Hold the Borscht

'''*Log of the H.M.S. Porpoise, Experimental Submersible. 14 August, 1899. Position approximate, somewhere south of Kronstadt.* Wind, none. Sea, a flat calm, grey as a shroud. Visibility, less than a ship’s length. We’d been under for three bells, running on the accumulators, the air growing thick as engine grease. The Admiralty wanted to know if a submersible could approach a defended harbour unseen. Lieutenant-Commander Davies, our skipper, was a man who trusted his charts more than his eyes, which was just as well, as there was bugger-all to see. The order came: "Surface for bearings." Up we went, breaking the waves with a great sluice of water and a hiss of compressed air. The fog was as thick on the surface as below it. Then the quiet was split by a great bellowing in Russian from somewhere off the port bow. We had, it seemed, found the harbour defence fleet. And they had found us. We’d surfaced ten yards from the flagship of the Tsar’s Baltic Fleet, midway through their summer war games. Four battleships and a swarm of torpedo boats, all with their guns uncovered. A formal introduction seemed unlikely to smooth things over. Davies, to his credit, kept his nerve. "Half-astern," he ordered, quiet as you like. "Let’s see if they’ve noticed." They had. A searchlight beam cut the fog, pinning us like a moth. Another shout, this one sounding distinctly unfriendly. On our foredeck, a rating named Harris chose this moment to relieve himself over the side, a fact which appeared to cause a great deal of offence to the Tsar’s officers. A warning shot, I believe it’s called. Except this one wasn’t a warning. The shell, a six-pounder from the destroyer *Boikii*, screamed overhead and struck the water fifty yards past us. The shockwave, however, did something the Russian gunner never intended. The outer door of our single bow torpedo tube, which hadn’t been properly secured due to a stripped bolt-head from the yard, was rattled clean off its hinge. The torpedo within, a new Whitehead model set for a shallow run, slid from its cradle with the grace of a dropped cask of rum and plopped into the Baltic. Primed and armed, its own little engine fizzing into life. It was a beautiful piece of work, that torpedo. Cost the Admiralty a thousand pounds. It ran straight and true for precisely forty-seven seconds before striking the ceremonial barge that was carrying the Tsar’s personal supply of caviar and several furiously yapping Borzoi hounds to the flagship. The explosion was not large, but it was profoundly disrespectful. The air filled with fish eggs, splinters of gilt, and the indignant yelps of pedigree dogs. A silence fell, broken only by the sound of Petty Officer Harris hastily doing up his trousers. Lieutenant-Commander Davies stared at the rapidly spreading slick of very expensive lunch. "Right," he finally said, to no one in particular. "Dive."'''