Brag
10-30-08, 10:15 AM
Lt. Fritz Gwitz writes:
After the leaving port fiasco, Bernard went into hiding in the galley disguised as a sack of farting potatoes. In recognition of my writing ability, Balz instructed me to write a magazine article about our patrol.
We departed Lorient on 24 Janaury 1941 and headed to our assigned patrol area southeast of the Azores. The sea was flat calm and cheerfully reflected a happy sun. The next day the sea was flat as a desk and reflected the winter sun like a mirror on top of the desk. We cleared Cape Finisterre and the sea was flat like a pancake. There was a haze like in a kitchen where lots of pancakes are made.
Balz finished reading and gave me a hard stare. "This is no good."
"What's wrong?" I asked
"A story must awe, electrify and a inspire the reader. Great things must happen. Not once have you mentioned me, your great commander."
I wrote: Our great commander Balz, lay in his bunk stretched out flat like the flat sea outside.
"That's better," Balz said, "But your great commander is an inspiring character, he doesn't just lay on his bunk. He is a German hero-philosopher. I was stretched on my bunk thinking about orthopedic philosophy."
"Orthopedic philosophy?"
"Yes," Balz waved his hands. "Orthopedic philosophy keeps you from sticking your foot in your mouth."
While I pondered the truths of orthopedic philosophy, Balz called the boat chief. "Chief, take the boat down to hundred and fifty meters. I want to do some deep thinking."
For the first week, the sea was not only flat, but it was flat empty of shipping. In the temperate climate the crew took advantage of the sunshine to lay flat on deck sunning themselves. Of course, they did not remain flat on deck when we dived for sound checks Or when our glorious commander wanted to immerse himself in deep thought.
On the eleventh day the sea state changed. It became lumpy like the humps of camels during mating season. The sky was covered by clouds as lumpy as the mashed potatoes we had for dinner. The lumpy sea continued to be flat empty of traffic.
Even when Balz wore his bunny eared tea cozy and bunny slippers we still didn't pick up anything on the hydrophone.
To relieve the tedium, Balz wrote a song, Meet me in Balzimore You Hoochie Woochie and had the choir practice it three times a day.
"Soon we will wreak havoc to British shipping, win the war, and I will take my choir to Broadway," Balz declared while we sat having lunch.
"Maybe we have won the war, maybe the Brits don't have any ships left," I said, thinking my intellectual contribution was needed.
No longer disguised as a sack of farting potatoes, Bernard came over to the officers' nook and sat down. "The reason we are not seeing any ships is because we have failed to find them."
"I'm going to put a noose around your neck, tie it to the periscope and raise the scope. Maybe, as your eyes pop you will get a vision of British ships," Balz growled.
I couldn't resist laughing. The vision of Bernard flapping in the wind was an appealing one.
"Funkschpruh erhalten," the radioman shouted from his cubicle. He reached over and handed the message to Bernard.
"It is in code," Bernard said.
"What a surprise." Balz banged his fist on the table. "Decode it, you moron."
Twenty minutes later, Bernard finished scribbling on the message pad; he raised his head and smiled. "It's in German, Herr Kaleun."
"Well, read it, you nitwit."
"Should I translate it to English?"
"What the hell for?" Balz's face was turning purple.
"The message is about a British ship, not far from here. The report would sound more British if I read it in English."
More next week.
Notice announcement below--you can now peek into Brag's book. Check it out!
After the leaving port fiasco, Bernard went into hiding in the galley disguised as a sack of farting potatoes. In recognition of my writing ability, Balz instructed me to write a magazine article about our patrol.
We departed Lorient on 24 Janaury 1941 and headed to our assigned patrol area southeast of the Azores. The sea was flat calm and cheerfully reflected a happy sun. The next day the sea was flat as a desk and reflected the winter sun like a mirror on top of the desk. We cleared Cape Finisterre and the sea was flat like a pancake. There was a haze like in a kitchen where lots of pancakes are made.
Balz finished reading and gave me a hard stare. "This is no good."
"What's wrong?" I asked
"A story must awe, electrify and a inspire the reader. Great things must happen. Not once have you mentioned me, your great commander."
I wrote: Our great commander Balz, lay in his bunk stretched out flat like the flat sea outside.
"That's better," Balz said, "But your great commander is an inspiring character, he doesn't just lay on his bunk. He is a German hero-philosopher. I was stretched on my bunk thinking about orthopedic philosophy."
"Orthopedic philosophy?"
"Yes," Balz waved his hands. "Orthopedic philosophy keeps you from sticking your foot in your mouth."
While I pondered the truths of orthopedic philosophy, Balz called the boat chief. "Chief, take the boat down to hundred and fifty meters. I want to do some deep thinking."
For the first week, the sea was not only flat, but it was flat empty of shipping. In the temperate climate the crew took advantage of the sunshine to lay flat on deck sunning themselves. Of course, they did not remain flat on deck when we dived for sound checks Or when our glorious commander wanted to immerse himself in deep thought.
On the eleventh day the sea state changed. It became lumpy like the humps of camels during mating season. The sky was covered by clouds as lumpy as the mashed potatoes we had for dinner. The lumpy sea continued to be flat empty of traffic.
Even when Balz wore his bunny eared tea cozy and bunny slippers we still didn't pick up anything on the hydrophone.
To relieve the tedium, Balz wrote a song, Meet me in Balzimore You Hoochie Woochie and had the choir practice it three times a day.
"Soon we will wreak havoc to British shipping, win the war, and I will take my choir to Broadway," Balz declared while we sat having lunch.
"Maybe we have won the war, maybe the Brits don't have any ships left," I said, thinking my intellectual contribution was needed.
No longer disguised as a sack of farting potatoes, Bernard came over to the officers' nook and sat down. "The reason we are not seeing any ships is because we have failed to find them."
"I'm going to put a noose around your neck, tie it to the periscope and raise the scope. Maybe, as your eyes pop you will get a vision of British ships," Balz growled.
I couldn't resist laughing. The vision of Bernard flapping in the wind was an appealing one.
"Funkschpruh erhalten," the radioman shouted from his cubicle. He reached over and handed the message to Bernard.
"It is in code," Bernard said.
"What a surprise." Balz banged his fist on the table. "Decode it, you moron."
Twenty minutes later, Bernard finished scribbling on the message pad; he raised his head and smiled. "It's in German, Herr Kaleun."
"Well, read it, you nitwit."
"Should I translate it to English?"
"What the hell for?" Balz's face was turning purple.
"The message is about a British ship, not far from here. The report would sound more British if I read it in English."
More next week.
Notice announcement below--you can now peek into Brag's book. Check it out!