Without Petulance

A slim bronze dolphin coursed the Baltic Sea one day last week, sped in a straight line for four miles with the accuracy peculiar to automobile torpedoes.

The German submarine commander who had loosed the torpedo as a "practice shot" had aimed at nothing. The torpedo, he knew, was empty of explosives. Routine-surfeited, he prepared to steam after it, to recover and recharge with propulsive air this highly expensive mechanism. . . .

Across the path of the still speeding dolphin a Danish sailboat tacked, jiggled. Like a blunt-nosed swordfish the torpedo punctured the sail boat's hull, churned and frothed with the expiring might of its compressed air, was carried to the bottom as the relatively worthless fishing smack sank. . . .

Vexed, harassed by the loss of his torpedo, the sub-commander did not carry his petulance to extremes, rescued the sailboat's crew.