Close Call (story)

[Schöneboom]

U-77's third patrol under Kptlt. Peter Ullmann.
28 November 1942. North of Tobruk, in Grid CO56.

"Come on, men, we've been in tighter spots than this," I said.

Rolf, my 1WO, smiled nervously, straining to remember when. We couldn't help but notice our boat's ominous aftward tilt. Between wabo explosions, we heard the damage control teams working furiously to stem the flooding in three compartments.

Anton climbed down from the tower, shaking his head. "We lost both periscopes, the radio antenna, and the radar warning receiver," he said. "I'm sure that last barrage took out the Wintergarten, too."

"Could be worse. Any casualties?"

Rolf and Anton looked at each other. At last Rolf said, "Bootsmann Kern smacked into a bulkhead. Got a nasty bruise."

I sighed with exaggerated concern. "Ah, if only his Mutti were here, she would kiss it and make it better!" Compared to our last patrol, when we lost the entire flak crew, we were still lucky. For the moment at least.

The commotion astern began to subside. Dripping wet, our LI wearily hauled himself up from the engine room to join us. In spite of Heinrich's grim expression, the fact that he could even make a report now meant there had to be some good news. He caught his breath before speaking.

"The starboard diesel's wrecked, beyond repair," he began. "Aft batteries are all kaputt. Half the forward batteries are gone, too. Pressure hull's in bad shape. I wouldn't take her below 200 meters."

"And the bad news, LI?" I asked. That almost made him smile.

"We stopped the flooding," he said. "But it's knee-deep back there. And we still have slow leaks. Even after we drain out the Heckraum, we must keep the pumps on, if we want to run at 50 rpm and not sink."

More wabos exploded; Heinrich dodged a swinging salami. I said, "In that case, the Tommies will hear us, even with the thermal layer."

"Herr Kaleun, about that thermal layer," said Rolf. "It's lower than it was. About 160 meters now, I'd say." Marvelous, I thought, that's all we need.

The depth gauge now read 185 meters. And we were still sinking. Another set of wabos exploded directly behind us. One of our red lights shattered.

"Ahead full speed," I said. "LI, keep the pumps running, and do what you can about those leaks."

Heinrich nodded and clambered back down to the stern. The rest of us watched the depth needle climb with excruciating slowness. With our weakened batteries, the e-motors were turning only 150 rpm.

"Blow ballast!" I ordered. "We have to get higher!" Let the wabos fall, I thought. The more noise they make, the better for us. The compressed air hissed loudly; the depth needle rose at a more encouraging rate.

Soon we were at 130 meters. Like sharks, the two destroyers circled overhead, pinging for us. "Ahead slow, 50 rpm," I said.

At one knot, the boat began to sink again. Rolf realized what I was doing. With no further adjustments, in a minute we'd be under the thermal layer again.

"Not bad, Herr Kaleun," he said. "But how long can we keep this up?"

"All night, if necessary. "We won't suffocate."

"But we won't slip the noose this way," he said. "Even if the Tommies don't get a direct hit, they'll know more or less where we are."

"Clearly, everything depends on getting the boat trimmed and stopping those leaks in the stern. If we can't shut off the pumps without sinking to crush depth, well..."

Anton stifled a nervous laugh. The planesmen glanced at him. We all knew the rest. If our battery power ran out before we could slip past the Tommies...

Willi, our navigator, busied himself by changing the broken bulb. I imagined he was starting to regret his transfer to the U-Bootwaffe.

Scanning the map of the eastern Mediterranean, I considered our options. "Willi," I said, "I have a job for you. Plot us a course back home, first north to the Peloponnese, then west across the Ionian Sea."

"Then through the Strait of Messina?" he asked.

"Exactly," I replied. "We bagged four freighters. Mustn't be greedy."

"Jawohl, Herr Kaleun," he answered. The task would take his mind off the crisis at hand.

From the sonar station, Oskar whispered urgently, "Herr Kaleun! Destroyer at 210, closing fast!"

I checked the depth gauge: 170 meters. I turned to Rolf. "You know the routine. I'll be in the officers' mess." That raised a few eyebrows.

"Herr Kaleun, shall I change course as well as depth?"

"Yes. Zig-zag, about thirty degrees after each attack. Keep heading southward, generally." The destroyers would tag along, of course. But not forever, if we could help it.

Karl-Heinz brought me a sandwich and a mug of coffee. The word spread quickly, as I expected. At a time like this, the skipper was taking a break?! The effect was better than any speech I could've given. Most of the men had no choice but to lie in their bunks and wait it out. But perhaps the situation wasn't so hopeless after all.

What I think, but never say, is that hope is what you need when there is no cause for optimism.

In truth, the fate of the boat was not in my hands, but in Heinrich's. He knew it, too. I was not about to disturb him, though I badly wanted to check up on his progress.

Up and down, up and down we went for the next hour, with Rolf taking his cues from the exploding wabos. He was becoming quite proficient at evasive maneuvers. The Tommies must have been very frustrated!

My brief "rest" came at a price: the nagging fear that we would run out of time. At first we had only one destroyer after us. If they managed to get a second one to join the hunt, there might be more on the way to relieve them.

If only I had sunk that first destroyer when I had the chance! I was obsessed with getting that last freighter! Well, we got her, all right. A perfect shot.

In the dim red light we all waited, listening to the silence, broken by whispered commands, the groans of the hull, and the churning of propellers above. Little by little, our boat returned to its normal trim. The wabos missed us, again and again. And yet... could we slip past the destroyers in time?

I couldn't stand it anymore. I got up and went directly to the Heckraum. There I found the deck panels removed and Heinrich standing in a puddle below. Upon seeing me, he gestured to his assistants, Roitner and Giess. Utterly exhausted and soaked to the skin, they nodded and left.

"Well, how goes it?" I asked. Heinrich gave me an equivocal look, as if to mask his disappointment.

"I'm sorry, Herr Kaleun," he said. "I couldn't stop all the leaks. But I think we can turn off the pumps for an hour. Maybe two. Will that be enough?"

"Let's hope so," I replied.

[Santini]

*golf clap* Well done, sir. There should be an AAR subforum

[Snestorm]

Good story . . . I hope.
Looking forward to a good (happy) ending.

Had to look up that U77 was a VIIC, and still curiouse about the date.

[Gerald]

To docked and go in a take some rest,or looking after Mr E Rommel somevare in the desert
:yep:

[Paul Riley]

@Schoneboom

That is a well written story,very tense,I hope they make it,and keep a close eye on that battery guage! :o
Well done :cool:

[Jimbuna]

BE MORE AGGRESSIVE!! http://www.psionguild.org/forums/images/smilies/wolfsmilies/pirate.gif

[frau kaleun]

*golf clap* Well done, sir.

Agreed, that was a good read! :salute:

[Sailor Steve]

Gripping. Made me glad I'm not there.

[Schöneboom]

Danke! And it was all based on my patrol from last week. GWX never ceases to amaze!

[Jimbuna]

Danke! And it was all based on my patrol from last week. GWX never ceases to amaze!

SINK EM ALL!! http://www.psionguild.org/forums/images/smilies/wolfsmilies/pirate.gif

[Brag]

A good read, even without belly dancers :D

[Gerald]

A good read, even without belly dancers :D

Whats happen? Are the crew suspended? :hmmm:

[frau kaleun]

Whats happen? Are the crew suspended? :hmmm:

No, but for some strange reason the belly dancers are wearing their suspenders.

Note to self: I need to get transferred to Balz's boat.

[Lord_magerius]

No, but for some strange reason the belly dancers are wearing their suspenders.

Note to self: I need to get transferred to Balz's boat.

You only want to be on Balz's boat so you can strike heroic poses rather than do your duty and being a woman I can see that you belong in the kitchen... :O:

I'm sorry, I've just realised what I've done :o :O:

[frau kaleun]

http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_9T2wDf9EBLI/RpPZX_nj1cI/AAAAAAAAAJ0/lLpudAv5uZk/s400/dilbert_fist_of_death_1280x960.jpg

[Lord_magerius]

That's what I was afraid of... :o

[frau kaleun]

That's what I was afraid of... :o

Do not taunt the Valkyrie. :O:

[Lord_magerius]

*pulls wing*

[frau kaleun]

*pulls wing*

That does it, I'm tellin'.

DAAAAAAD!!!

http://www.lordalford.com/mythology/Norse/odin.jpg

Now you're really in trouble. :O:

[Lord_magerius]

He won't do anything, I'm needed at Ragnarok.

[frau kaleun]

He won't do anything, I'm needed at Ragnarok.

http://images.cheezburger.com/completestore/2010/4/14/129157476264155954.gif

Bucking for a seat in Valhalla, are we? Hoping to be among the einherjar, hmmmmm?

I suppose you have no idea who gets to pick them out from among the fallen.

Mwahahahahaha!

They don't call us "choosers of the slain" for nothin', ya dig?

[Lord_magerius]

Damn, I should really think before I start taunting valkyries...

[frau kaleun]

Damn, I should really think before I start taunting valkyries...

:smug: :03:

[Crécy]

There should be an AAR subforum

Yes indeed!

Great story! Well written.

[Jimbuna]

Damn, I should really think before I start taunting valkyries...


Either that or book a room :rotfl2:

[frau kaleun]

Either that or book a room :rotfl2:

A hospital bed would be a good bet.:O:

[Jimbuna]

A hospital bed would be a good bet.:O:


Not the maternity suite I hope :o

[frau kaleun]

Not the maternity suite I hope :o

I think he can prolly hold off on that until his water breaks. :O:

[Schöneboom]

[Ah, the wonky wi-fi came back on -- must post quickly before it conks again!]

"Good job, Heinrich," I said. "Now change into some dry clothes and go lie down."

"But, Herr Kaleun..."

"You've fixed everything that can be fixed, right? Don't worry, I'll look after the boat for you."

Heinrich relented. We looked at the many boards wedged against the pressure hull. "No stern shots on this patrol," said Heinrich.

I met with Rolf in the Zentrale. Though weary, he was relieved to see Heinrich pass by. But the destroyers above were not finished with us. Wabos exploded, close enough to send tremors through the hull, and us. At full speed, our e-motors were straining to make 4 knots.

"He fixed all the leaks back there, eh?"

"Almost all," I replied. "So, Rolf, you still want to command your own boat?"

After a moment's pause, he simply nodded. Had he smiled just then, I would have doubted his sanity.

"Ahead slow," I ordered. Rolf described the situation in whispers, pointing up at the sounds of propellers.

"That one at 140 degrees is listening. He'll attack next. I'm trying to see if there's a regular pattern in the way they turn--"

"Don't bother. They're too clever for that," I said.

The depth gauge read 170 meters. "Keep us at this depth," I said. We waited... and sure enough, the 'listener' became the 'attacker'. Coming in from astern. But his attack run did not go quite overhead.

"All right... wait for it... Full speed!"

The concussion of the wabos gave our boat a hearty shove upwards. "Rudder, hard to starboard!" I said. "New course, 270 degrees. Go to silent running, 50 rpm!"

The order was passed along all the compartments. Real silent running. At last.

We watched the compass turn lazily as our speed drifted down to 1 knot. Most importantly, the depth needle stayed steady, without the pumps.

However we were not entirely unscathed. A pipe fitting in the Zentrale drooled water. We couldn't fix it yet, of course. Willi swept droplets off the map table with his hand.

"So, Willi, our course for home. Is it ready?"

"Jawohl, Herr Kaleun," he answered. "For Peloponnese, we steer to 344 degrees."

"Sehr gut," I said, addressing the Zentrale team generally. "Once the Tommies realize they've lost contact, they'll try to scare us into doing something foolish."

One more course change, and we were on our new heading for Greece. As I expected, the Tommies plastered our last known position with wabos. The blasts were deafening; it was as if we were being pounded inside a gigantic drum over and over.

Lying in my bunk, listening to Oskar's reports, I tried to visualize the destroyers up there. It seemed they were expanding their search pattern, but away from us. For the moment, our luck was holding -- like the repairs to our hull, and the surviving batteries.

However I knew that in an office somewhere, some flunky had just stuck a pin in a map of the Med. I imagined him drawing a circle around that pin. In that circle, if we lived to see the morning, airplanes would be searching for us. And with every sighting, another pin would be stuck in the map, and another circle would be drawn. It would be a long trip home.

[timmy41]

great story! i hope it continues!

[Snestorm]

This is cool.

[Schöneboom]

"Oskar?" He knew the question -- I had asked him so many times already.

"179 meters, Herr Kaleun."

I sat up and peeked into the sonar shack, checking the repeater gauges. We had been on silent running for three hours. Our rate of descent was slower than expected, but I still had to decide when to turn on the pumps.

I put on the headphones to listen for myself. The destroyers were still searching behind us. But if we could hear them, could they not also hear us?

"How far is far enough, one can only guess," said Oskar. "They make a lot of racket, but they might have good sound men, too."

"If they're half as good as you, Oskar, we should wait a while longer." As I returned his headphones, I saw Heinrich approaching.

"I told you to rest, Heinrich."

"I couldn't sleep."

"The boat can take another couple of hours without the pumps, I think."

"We shouldn't sink any deeper," he pleaded. "At this depth, small leaks have a way of turning into big ones quite suddenly. If that happens, we'll have no choice but to go to full speed to save ourselves."

Oskar and I traded looks. There would be no second chance then.

"We'll wait until they drop wabos again," I said. "They might not notice the pumps coming on through all the noise."

We only had to wait ten minutes. The Tommies dropped just a few this time. They had to pace themselves.

"Pumps on." After such a long period of silence on board, the faint hum was startling.

Oskar listened closely for a reaction. "The one that dropped is at 154 degrees, heading away. The one listening is at 190. Approaching... at 193 degrees... Slowing down... 195... 196..."

"Is he turning round yet?" I asked.

He shrugged. "Speeding up now... 197... 199..."

I could see Heinrich's agony, fearing that his caution had sealed our doom. "He either heard us or he didn't," I told him. "There's nothing for it now."

Oskar gestured for silence. "Slowing down... 201... 199... He's turning to starboard... 198... 197..."

I leaned into the Zentrale. Rolf, Willi, and the rest all showed the strain. "Alles klar?" I asked. Rolf nodded. The look in his eyes told me he was ready for whatever fate had decided.

"195 degrees," whispered Oskar. "Still turning... Same distance... Faster now... 192... 189... 185..."

"Keep going east," Heinrich urged. "Keep going, you Hund!"

"180... 175... 170... Turning again..."

"Which way? Port? Starboard?" I gave Heinrich a hard look -- Oskar needed quiet, now more than ever.

"Heading away, at 168..." The relief on Oskar's face was apparent.

"Lieber Gott, they didn't hear us," I said at last. Heinrich had to lean against a bulkhead; for a moment I thought he was going to weep.

We had crossed a threshold, but another one awaited. Now we had to get out of radar range in order to surface - before dawn. It would mean surfacing without our periscopes or Biscay Cross to warn us. But what was the effective range of their radar? How far away would they be six or seven hours from now?

[Snestorm]

Still here, filled with anticipation, and enjoying the story greatly.

[Jimbuna]

Still here, filled with anticipation, and enjoying the story greatly.

Ditto http://www.psionguild.org/forums/images/smilies/wolfsmilies/pirate.gif

[Schöneboom]

"Herr Kaleun... Herr Kaleun??"

I awoke with a start. It was only Bootsmann Risse nudging me. He returned to the hydrophone station. Oskar was getting some well-earned sleep. So were Rolf and Willi.

"Danke, Karl," I said. The clock read 0400. It took an effort to breathe the pungent, stuffy air. With less oxygen, we were not at our sharpest. That worried me.

"The destroyers are much fainter now, Herr Kaleun," said Karl. "Still searching, but far behind us."

"By now we must've travelled at least ten kilometers," I said.

"I think the Tommies have stayed close to where we first submerged," he said. "But there's only one way to know for sure."

"They won't be satisfied till they see my white hat floating. And they can't have it." I got up to confer with Heinrich, back on duty in the Zentrale.

Heinrich seemed calmer after his nap. Perhaps it was the lingering exhaustion we all felt. "Depth is 170 meters, holding steady, Herr Kaleun," he said. I could see his eyes flick to the pipe behind me, still dribbling.

"Batteries holding up, L.I.?" Except for the Zentrale and the E-motor room, the boat was in darkness to conserve power.

"We'll have to surface soon," he replied. "I assume you don't plan to charge the batteries straight away."

"Quite right. When we surface, speed is everything."

"In that case, if you want any power left for crash-diving, we should surface now."

Another good reason. That and the coming sunrise. Darkness was still our friend.

But would it be too soon to avoid the radar? If the Tommies were on the horizon, was that far enough?

This time, reason alone would not suffice. I had to trust my gut.

"Surface the boat, L.I. Ahead slow."

With a flurry of commands Heinrich and the crew started our long ascent. I put on my leather jacket and binoculars. While waiting for the boat to rise, the watch crew assembled in the Zentrale.

"It'll be just like old times," I said to the lookouts. "No Biscay Cross, only your eyes." Technically we were at a disadvantage, yet somehow, maybe it was the way I said it... They knew I placed my faith in them. They were ready. It felt right.

At the surface, I popped opened the tower hatch. I thought I saw the fetid vapors rush out of the boat like evil spirits. Fresh air, at last! We inhaled great lungfuls with idiot glee. Our one good diesel sprang to life as we rushed up the ladder, not knowing what we would find.

[timmy41]

ahhhh a cliffhanger!

[Snestorm]

I love it!

[maillemaker]

Great story!

Steve

[Jimbuna]

Great stuff http://www.psionguild.org/forums/images/smilies/wolfsmilies/thumbsup.gif

[Schöneboom]

The lookouts and I peered into the darkness. No ships in sight, Gott sei Dank. Our boat gradually accelerated to 12 knots. With only the one diesel to get us home, I dared not push it harder.

The damage to the tower soon became apparent to us. What looked vaguely like a strand of kelp underfoot was a remnant of our radio antenna, entangled in what was left of the Wintergarten. Bootsmann Giess, sent by Heinrich, made a preliminary inspection.

"Mensch!" he exclaimed. Indeed, none of us had ever seen a tower so badly mangled. The two lookouts normally stationed by the upper flak gun had to stand closer to the periscope. "Incredible, what this boat can take," I said.

Even in the pre-dawn, we saw that the gun barrels were all bent. Our Flakzwillings looked like wilted plants.

"At least the deck gun is intact, Herr Kaleun," said Giess before going below with the coiled-up antenna remains.

"Waste not, want not, eh, Giess?" I quipped.

"Wire is wire, Herr Kaleun," he replied. "You never know when it'll come in handy."

I kept a close watch on the horizon behind us. It's one thing to gaze at the sea for pleasure; quite another to stare at it incessantly, searching for the enemy. The mind plays tricks, so hesitation is natural; no one wants to look foolish. Was that a wake I saw, or just a wave? A wave -- it had to be. So I knew what these boys were going through. The trick was not just to keep them attentive, but unafraid to speak.

Rolf took over for me, so I went below to have breakfast with Heinrich, Anton and Willi. The leaky pipe in the Zentrale was finally fixed.

I could see Heinrich's mind racing again. It was a good quality, when under control. "Herr Kaleun, given the boat's condition, we need to modify the crash-dive procedure," he began. "Before we go under, we can run the starboard e-motor along with the port diesel. It won't add much, but every bit helps."

"Even then, we can expect a slower dive than normal," said Anton. "If an airplane takes a dump on us, we'll be close to the surface. That's almost guaranteed."

"In that case, we have to spoil their aim at the last second," I said. "A sharp turn, just as the tower goes under."

"That might work against gunfire and bombs, but if they drop a spread of wabos..." Heinrich was right. Not every problem had a solution.

"Is there any chance at all of fixing the Metox?" asked Willi.

Heinrich sighed. "The cross was smashed so many times on this patrol, we've run out of sticks."

"Improvise, L.I.," I said. "There's plenty of wood up on the bridge. Get some of the guys in the Bugraum to start whittling."

"There's still the electronics to fix. Not so easy, that. A lot of our spares got broken. I could try substituting parts from the radio, but there's no way to really test it--"

"I'm sure the Tommies will help," said Anton.

"That's no joke, Anton," I said. "Remember, just before we left La Spezia, U-331 got sunk by aircraft near Algiers. We still don't know the fate of her crew."

That sinking particularly disturbed me, because Kptlt. von Tiesenhausen was like me, one of the Old Guard. They didn't cut corners on the training in those days. And surely the Metox was working on his boat. Did he make a fatal error? Or did the Allies invent a new weapon, or a trick for detecting us without our knowing it?

Heinrich finished his breakfast before the rest of us. "Better get started on the repairs," he muttered, heading for the Zentrale.

[timmy41]

another exciting episode :yeah:

[Snestorm]

It's like a good book.
I don't want it to end.

[Schöneboom]

With our torpedomen and gunners mostly idle, and no radio to distract them, we had plenty of volunteers for watch duty on two-hour rotation. While two men in the Bugraum carved us a new Biscay Cross, Oskar tinkered with the Metox in the radio shack. It was right for Heinrich to delegate the job, given that he already did the work of four men, supervising repairs and maintenance throughout the boat.

Later that morning, I joined Anton on the bridge. For a moment it felt as if life on board were returning to normal. But surely the Tommies hadn't given up on us?

"Pity about the radio," said Anton. "If we don't report soon, Headquarters will think we've been sunk."

"It might be a blessing in disguise," I replied. "Perhaps that's why the Tommies haven't found us yet."

"Herr Kaleun, they couldn't crack our codes! That's unthinkable!"

"They don't need to. Think about it, Anton. How hard would it be to do radio direction-finding? One listening station at Gibraltar. Another on Malta. A third in Cairo... Maybe even on a ship at sea. Why not?"

"That would require a high degree of coordination," he said.

"No more complicated than what goes on at Kerneval every day. What astounds me is how no one there believes this could be happening! They even scold me for not sending more reports!"

"That's military bureaucracy for you. Thick as a U-boat bunker!" he said, wiping his binoculars. "I have my own theory as to why the Tommies haven't found us yet." His wily grin told me this would be worth hearing.

"Inter-service rivalry," he declared. "You know how we always complain about the Luftwaffe? It must be like that with the Tommies, too. Why would the Royal Navy want to give away a precious target like us to the Air Force so quickly?"

I had to laugh. "Good point, Anton! You might even be right." To think we might owe these hours of safety to that common human failing! I would never rely on the enemy to make a mistake, but if they did, I would gratefully take full advantage of it.

I called down to the Zentrale. "L.I., how goes it with the Metox?"

Heinrich looked up at us. "The new cross is done, Herr Kaleun. As for the receiver, well, it lights up when we turn it on. But it gets hot very fast. Not a good sign."

"As long as it doesn't blow up, let's give it a try!" I climbed down first, to avoid having too many men on the bridge. Willi then started up the ladder, with the Biscay Cross hanging off his back.

Suddenly Anton's face darkened the hatchway above.

"ALAAARRRMMMM!!!"

[Schöneboom]

Alarm bells rang throughout the boat. Willi dropped like a stone back into the Zentrale. I yanked him out of the way of the stampede; this time the cross was saved. Anton, the last man in, sealed the hatch.

"Aircraft, bearing 330! A big one!" he said.

With Heinrich conducting the crash-dive, everyone was in his proper place in record time. The rest was up to the boat. The moment we switched to e-motors, our speed bled off at a sickening rate.

We watched the depth needle; for an eternity it seemed it hardly budged.

"Rudder, hard to starboard!" I bellowed. At 12 meters and falling, our wake might be too small for the pilot to spot the course change in time. But the turn bled off even more speed.

"Twenty meters," Heinrich announced. Not enough!

"Faster! Come on!" Anton urged the boat.

The compass indicated we had turned 30 degrees. Already we were making only 4 knots! "Rudder amidships!" I ordered. We braced for the inevitable.

The explosion threw us forward against the bulkhead. Voices yelled from the Bugraum: "Flooding!" With half the crew crammed in there, at least we had no shortage of manpower.

"If that was a Sunderland," I said, "They'll make another pass, with wabos this time. Deeper, L.I."

Heinrich was beside himself -- to continue going deeper with the boat taking on water was contrary to instinct.

"Thirty meters," he said, breathing heavily.

Bootsmann Kern ran up to us, dripping wet; his damage report: "Flooding stopped, Herr Kaleun."

"Then send half the men astern at once!" Heinrich ordered. "We've got more than enough weight in the bow!" Kern raced back to the Bugraum.

"Lucky for us the Schweine dropped their bombs too far ahead," said Anton.

Willi removed the cross from his back. "Maybe they thought we should be going faster."

I glanced up, imagining the bomber coming round. Men rushed past, en route to the Heckraum.

"Forty meters," said Heinrich.

Oskar called out from the sonar shack. "Wasserbomben!"

The explosions rocked us to and fro. Leaks sprang all around from pressure hull fittings. Damage control teams worked feverishly to stop them. And stop them they did.

"Good job!" I said, clapping Bootsman Roitner on the back. "You can be my plumber anytime!"

At 80 meters, I turned to Heinrich. "Ahead slow. We'll stay down for one hour."

"Only one, Herr Kaleun?" asked Rolf.

"It's a calculated risk," I said. "That bomber probably won't circle around us that long, not this far out."

"But they'll call for reinforcements," he retorted. "With radar they can search day and night."

"Better to run fast on the surface, then. The sooner we make it to Greek waters, the safer we'll be."

"Battery power is at 10% of normal," said Heinrich. "If we don't recharge, the next crash-dive will be even slower."

That was all we needed to hear.

[Snestorm]

Not only excellent reading, but the post lengths are also perfect.

[Schöneboom]

At periscope depth, Oskar gave the hydrophone wheel another turn and listened. He shook his head "no". All clear.

We surfaced as rapidly as possible; the watch crew took their positions and scanned the horizon with the urgency of going to battlestations. Indeed we were in a battle, for our survival.

With the port diesel driving both the generator and propeller, we made only eight knots. Heinrich said, "With half the forward batteries intact, we can top them up in about an hour and a half."

"So we can have 25% of normal power, at most," Anton observed grimly.

"Even with that, we should have a faster dive next time," I said. Looking back on our encounter with the plane, I had to admit we owed more to luck than skill. Had the pilot judged our speed correctly on the first pass...

At last Willi installed the new Biscay Cross on the bridge. Matrosengefreiter Goedicke was appointed to give the antenna a quarter-turn every 15 seconds or so. Gathered around Oskar in the radio shack, we watched with anticipation as he slipped on the headphones. His quizzical expression told me the repaired Metox was not what he expected.

"It makes a humming now," he said. "No radar signal so far... Ach, Scheisse! That's hot!" He had touched the receiver's metal casing. Heinrich felt it, too.

"Verdammt! You could fry eggs on that thing! Shut it off!"

"Wait! Let me try something," said Oskar. He quickly removed the Metox's casing, then aimed his desk fan at the exposed electronics. It seemed to help.

"A cooling system," mused Heinrich. "Not bad. All right, we'll leave it on for now." With that, he attended to the forward batteries, his Number 1 concern. Donning a Tauchretter and heavy rubber gloves, he slid beneath the Zentrale deck panels.

Anton and I observed the map. "Even after we're north of Crete, we'll have to stay on our guard," I said. "The Tommies know where we're going. Now they can focus their search in a smaller area than before."

Anton groused, "These planes are even worse than the destroyers!"

"Ja, it takes only one," I said. "The way things are heating up in Algeria, let's be glad we're here and not there." Despite our predicament, the one idea we never entertained was stopping at Sudabucht or any other port in the vicinity. After nearly getting sunk at Lampedusa two months ago, we would not be sitting ducks again.

Willi climbed down the tower with his sextant; he had just taken a sun shot. He soon calculated our position, walked the calipers on the map, and declared, "At our present speed, in sixteen hours we should be in Messiniakos Gulf."

Anton stared at the name on the map. "You've been practicing."

"Good thing we're not stationed in Salamis," I said. "Italian's easier. Più facile."

"So are the women!" said Anton with a lecherous grin.

"Maybe the kind you meet," I said. "In my experience, most Italian women are still conservative. They plan to settle down and have kids."

Heinrich emerged from the battery compartment and removed his gloves. "So far, so good. Couldn't salvage any more cells, but the ones we have are charging nicely."

"ALAAARRRMMMM!!!"

Through the hatch the Biscay Cross fell unceremoniously to the deck, followed by the lookouts, who trampled the antenna to bits as they joined in the crash-dive frenzy.

[unterseemann]

Great story, one of the best ( and maybe the best) i've ever read here... :yeah:

[Snestorm]

Ja. This has definately got me captivated.

[timmy41]

poor poor biscay cross

[Schöneboom]

"Aircraft, bearing 150!" Rolf shouted as he sealed the tower hatch.

Heinrich, Anton and I stared at the gauges. The moment the bow went under, our speed plummeted to five knots.

"They caught us too soon!" Heinrich said, exasperated. "The battery power's only 18% of normal!"

"Rudder, hard to port!" I ordered. At this point, turning to face our attacker was out of the question. Perhaps heading away, presenting the narrowest profile, we stood a chance.

"Twenty meters," announced Heinrich.

From the sonar hut, Oskar declared, "Mein Gott, I hear the plane going over!"

We instinctively looked up -- and heard the splashes. Four wabos fell in a row, diagonally over us.

"Ach, nein..." said Willi.

"Rudder amidships, ahead full," I ordered.

"Thirty meters..."

Thunderous explosions hurled us to the deck. Two of the wabos straddled our boat aft of the Zentrale. Water sprayed at us. Gauges shattered. Suddenly we were plunged into darkness. Our damage control men sprang into action, working by flashlights until a fuse was changed and lighting was restored.

"Herr Kaleun, may I?" Heinrich asked. Of course he was needed astern. I nodded. Rolf took the conn.

"Forty meters," said Rolf. The men kept working furiously, right through the next wabo attack. The boat rolled gently this time, enough to make the sausages sway like pendulums.

"Ha! They missed!" said Anton. "The meat-meter never lies!"

Growing impatient, I tracked Heinrich down. "L.I., report!"

"The leaks are fixed, Herr Kaleun," he said wearily. "Bilge and trim pumps are damaged. The trim system alone will take hours to repair."

"Do we still have control of the boat?"

"With the hydroplanes and compressed air, we can hold our depth or surface at will," he replied. "It just won't be elegant. And the water distiller's also kaputt."

"Verdammt! You can fix it, right?"

"Ja, ja... takes time, is all." Heinrich's voice showed the strain he was under.

"Carry on, L.I. We'll stay under till repairs are completed," I said. They're killing us by degrees, I thought. Though we were not in immediate danger of sinking, the constant sense of jeopardy sapped our morale. I had to do something.

I found my old Carlos Gardel tango record and played it on the gramophone. The sound of his maudlin voice resonating through the boat was so incongruous, it had a strangely uplifting effect on the crew. It didn't matter if they didn't understand the lyrics.

Karl-Heinz and I planned a special feast for dinner: Schnitzel, Rotkohl, Bratkartoffeln, and for dessert, Rote Grütze. It was meant as a surprise, but the mouth-watering aromas from the Kombüse could not be kept secret. In no time we had extra volunteers to help with the cooking.

Before surfacing, we would dine like kings. My private hope was that this would not be our last meal.

[Schöneboom]

After dinner Karl-Heinz came to refill our coffee cups in person, as was his custom. "My compliments to the chef," said Rolf.

"Danke schön, Herr Oberleutnant," replied Karl-Heinz. "The men particularly enjoyed the Rotkohl. They asked for seconds."

"In that case, we'll surface in ten minutes," I said. "The sooner we ventilate the boat, the better!"

As I'd hoped, the dinner had a salutary effect on morale. We only had to keep the men on-duty alert with coffee, and let the rest snore contented in their bunks.

I turned to Heinrich. "We had no warning of radar this time. L.I., what's your honest opinion of the Metox?"

"In its present state, I don't trust it, and neither does Oskar," he answered. "Frankly I think we should just call it kaputt."

"I concur, Herr Kaleun," said Rolf. "The lookouts know they can't rely on it now."

"Was the repair faulty, or are there other possibilities?"

Heinrich scratched his beard. "The Tommies could be getting clever, too. For example, the operators could be using the radar only in short bursts. Or they might have switched to another frequency, outside the Metox's range."

Anton spoke up. "No one wants to work with unreliable gear. If we rely on our eyes only, it's actually better, in a way."

In the Zentrale, Willi and the lookouts prepared for the next watch. When I informed them that the Biscay Cross had packed up for good, I saw no sign of misgivings, but rather relief. It really was up to them now.

Upon surfacing we proceeded at our best speed towards the Peloponnese. "Our course will keep us out of sight of land, Herr Kaleun," said Willi as he took another sextant reading.

"It's a pity, Greek islands are so beautiful," I replied. "But we can't have the partisans spotting us. They could contact the British."

Leaving Crete behind, I began to feel confident that we had finally given the Tommies the slip. Or rather, they had decided that pursuing us into Greek airspace was not worth the risk.

After sunrise Heinrich did a thorough inspection of the boat's exterior. To our chagrin, the No. 1 starboard tank had developed a crack. "We're leaving a trail of fuel," Heinrich reported. "Anyone can see it."

I lost my appetite for breakfast. There was nothing to be done. "Will we have enough fuel to get home?"

"Running on one diesel, we'll have enough in the No. 1 port tank and the reserve," he answered.

"Then we'll continue on our present course," I said. "Carry on, L.I."

I could see in his eyes that he wanted to stop somewhere. Salamis, most likely. But I wasn't having any of it. Sheer stubbornness on my part.

Later that day, while Rolf typed a report, I started reading a book in the officers' mess. Anton asked me the title. "The Odyssey of Homer," I told him.

"I've never read it," Anton confessed. "What's it about?" Mensch, I thought, so much for education in the New Germany!

"The great warrior Odysseus is on a long voyage home after the Trojan War. All he wants is to see his wife and family again. It takes him ten years."

"Ten years?! What took him so long?"

"For seven of those years he was stuck on an island with a beautiful goddess named Calypso."

"Aha!! Now the truth comes out!" Anton exclaimed.

"She was holding him captive, though," I added. "Against his will."

Rolf paused from his typing. "For seven years? Who'd buy an excuse like that?"

"Well, it must've been a hard choice. Calypso even offered to make him immortal. But he wanted to return to his wife anyway."

"He doesn't sound very smart to me," said Anton.

"It's one of the classics," I insisted. "You can read it when I'm done."

[timmy41]

:up:

[Jimbuna]

Great stuff http://www.psionguild.org/forums/images/smilies/wolfsmilies/thumbsup.gif

http://www.psionguild.org/forums/images/smilies/wolfsmilies/read2.gif

[Snestorm]

The saga continues.

[Schöneboom]

At 1900 that evening, off the coast of the Peloponnese, we turned westward to cross the Ionian Sea. So far none of our U-Boats had reported contact with the enemy in this narrow band. With luck we would have perhaps 24 hours of peace before reaching Calabria.

On the chart Willi drew a circle around Malta indicating the range of British air coverage. It encompassed almost all of Sicily, but just grazed the southern tip of Calabria, the toe of Italy's boot.

"That's being optimistic," I commented.

"This takes into account the fuel expended in searching their sectors," said Willi. "Of course they could fly farther, if they have coordinates for a specific target."

"Ja, quite so. And we mustn't forget their submarines. They could be anywhere." I recalled von Tiesenhausen's claim that the Tommies were patrolling near Ustica, north of Palermo.

Tonight at least, we were granted a reprieve. But it was a mixed blessing. In idle moments one becomes keenly aware of the torments of U-boat life: the cramped quarters, the perpetual damp, the filthy stench, the--

"Verdammt noch mal!" Rolf pounded the mess table hard enough to rattle the dishes. "Cursed, disgusting cockroaches! They're driving me mad!"

"Easy, Rolf," I said. "A few more days till La Spezia, then we'll have the boat fumigated."

"If only I had a flit-gun, I'd wipe them out!" Rolf growled.

"Are you kidding? You'd poison us as well!" said Heinrich. "Just ignore the beasts!"

Oskar and I came up with a new diversion: Off-duty men could play the music of their choice on the gramophone and act as "radio announcer" over the intercom. This stimulated their creativity to an unexpected degree, especially in the case of Matrosenobergefreiter Johann Rebholz.

None of us had suspected Johann's talent. The things he said, or implied, in a mock Wehrmacht news program (complete with mimicry and sound effects!) would have gotten him arrested back home. But among us U-boatmen, the unwritten rule was: What we say on board, stays on board.

And how we laughed! It was a breath of fresh air after all the shameless propaganda we had been fed day and night. Of course Johann could not resist poking fun at "Reichsmarschall Meier", also known as the Fat Man, the embodiment of corruption and our favorite scapegoat.

The humor was not as therapeutic for me, though. In the privacy of my bunk, doubts returned to haunt me. To blame Goering was too convenient. The absurdity of it all, the waste, the empty promises...

Three years. So many ships, so many U-boats, so many lives lost... What difference did any of it make? What victory could we hope for now?

Johann closed his show with a recording by the Comedian Harmonists, a group not heard on German radio for years. Applause, whistles, and cries of "Bravo!" and "Prima!" resounded through the boat.

Johann switched off the intercom and gramophone, then turned to me. I realized then that he was very likely the bravest man on board.

"Did you enjoy it, Herr Kaleun?" he asked.

"I laughed, didn't I?"

[Snestorm]

Still here, and enjoying.
This is the best read I've had in a long time.
Thank you for sharing your talents.

[Schöneboom]

Thank you as well -- your appreciation helps keep me going.

[Schöneboom]

By the following evening, we had reached Cape Spartivento without incident. However the tension on board increased the nearer we came to Calabria. As I walked through the boat, the Tauchretters were more conspicuous than usual, tucked in the corners of bunks. "The Malta Effect," I called it.

Before taking the next watch crew up, Rolf frowned at the map. "That little island has given us so much grief, I can't believe we still haven't taken it!"

"Plans have been drawn up, no doubt," I said. "But can you picture coordinating an amphibious invasion with the Italians?"

"I hate to speak ill of our stalwart allies," he groaned sarcastically.

"Well, just fifty kilometers west, and fifty north, and we'll be through the Strait of Messina," I said. "All in one night."

I decided we would not dive unless attacked, to spare our limited battery power. The risk here was in no way comparable to the Bay of Biscay, yet the narrowness of the passage gave one the sense of running a gauntlet. It was always a relief to come out the other end, especially the northern end.

"We haven't lost any boats in the Strait yet, have we?" I asked Heinrich over coffee. Since he had been posted to La Spezia six months before me, he knew more of the Flotilla's history.

"Well, hang on, there was U-374," he said. "Sunk last January, just south of here."

"Airplane?"

"Destroyers, I think. Or a submarine. So sad... It was their first patrol in the Med, right after they arrived from France. Can you imagine?"

"I just can't fathom why some live and others die. It's nothing to do with goodness, I know that much."

"Everyone dies, Herr Kaleun," he said. "It's only a matter of when and how."

"There's still the why," I said. I could tell this was more than he wanted to think about, so I let it go.

But in my mind's eye, I saw the water rushing in. Men scrambling towards the hatches in blind panic. Icy water rising above our heads. No!! Not now!! Not like this!!!

Stop it! I told myself. We are going home. Every one of us is going home!

I slept badly that night. Later, in the dark, I heard the lookouts coming off the second watch. Anton walked by softly, then paused, realizing I was awake.

"Herr Kaleun," he whispered, "We just passed Messina. We'll be in the Tyrrhenian Sea in one hour."

"Danke, Anton," I replied. "Danke." He nodded and walked on. I closed my eyes and went to sleep.

[Snestorm]

You need a publisher.

[Schöneboom]

"On the tenth, in black night, the gods brought me near to this island, Ogygia, where was Calypso. The awesome goddess took me in and loved me passionately and tended me, vowing that she would make me immortal and ageless, forever and ever."

Anton smirked. "Ja, I can tell Odysseus hated every minute of it."

Rolf asked, "Why would he give all this up to go back to Penelope? I mean, he wasn't exactly the faithful type, was he?"

"I've given that some thought myself," I said. "Maybe he knew she was still waiting for him. In his dreams, perhaps, she was calling to him to come home."

Rolf waited for Matrosengefreiter Schilling to clear the breakfast plates from our table. "Herr Kaleun," he asked at last, "Is someone back home waiting for you?"

I nodded. "Her name's Eva. We met in Danzig, when I was a Training Flotilla instructor."

"Will you get married?" asked Anton.

"Her father won't approve, now that I'm on the front line again."

"Mensch... And I thought everybody loved U-boatmen."

"He's an executive for Danziger Werft," I said. "So he knows how many U-boats get sunk. I can hardly blame the man."

Willi called down from the bridge, "Land ho!"

I put away my book and grabbed my binoculars. "Let's have a look, shall we? This is the last land we'll see for a while."

Our course would take us northwest through a rugged archipelago. The morning was clear and calm, ideal for viewing.

"Meine Herren, the Aeolian Islands. From left to right, Vulcano, Lipari, Salina, Panarea, and Stromboli."

Anton gazed at Stromboli, the peaked island off our starboard bow. "That's not a normal cloud up there... Mein Gott, that's a volcano!"

"Si, Signore Leutnant! And people live there, too!"

"They must be crazy!" Anton said, shaking his head. "You couldn't pay me to live on a volcano!"

"But they pay you to live on a U-boat," said Rolf.

"Ah, that's different!"

Rolf watched the tiny fishing boats near Panarea, off to port. "They must have a very simple life here."

"Ja, sometimes I imagine how it would be to leave everything behind and live on an island like that."

"Which island is Calypso's, I wonder?" asked Anton with a sly grin.

"I would venture... that far one, in the middle."

Anton stared through his binoculars at Salina, then let out a laugh. "Of course! With those two big round hills, Mamma Mia!" Naturally Rolf and Willi had to look as well.

"Herr Kaleun, may I see you for a moment, please?" It was Heinrich, calling up from the Zentrale. His tone made it seem urgent -- typical for him.

I climbed down and met with Heinrich and Oskar, who carried with him a large coil of thin wire. "Well, what's this about?" I asked.

"It's a little surprise, Herr Kaleun," said Oskar, smiling hopefully. "This is our new radio antenna."

I stared dumbfounded as they showed off their handiwork.

"We had plenty of idle hands in the Bugraum to help out," said Heinrich. "First they unravelled the remnant of the broken antenna."

"Then they spliced all the strands end to end," Oskar continued. "We measured out the right length, soldered the connections, and ecco fa!"

"Because the wire's so thin, I made small insulators from blocks of wood," added Heinrich. "Though the antenna trunk's kaputt, we can run the wire up through the tower hatch and suspend it over the bow. "

"Mensch, what crafty elves you are!" I said. "Phenomenal!"

"You did tell us to improvise," said Heinrich.

"Today the weather's so calm, we ought to try it out, Herr Kaleun," said Oskar. "Even if it lasts only one day--"

"Absolutely! Put up the antenna straight away! Let's send a message to BdU! They must be worried sick about us!"

"At the very least, we'll get to hear some cheesy Italian radio!" said Anton.

[timmy41]

"Which island is Calypso's, I wonder?" asked Anton with a sly grin.

"I would venture... that far one, in the middle."

Anton stared through his binoculars at Salina, then let out a laugh. "Of course! With those two big round hills, Mamma Mia!" Naturally Rolf and Willi had to look as well.

:har:

[Schöneboom]

http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2289/2286267113_dcf3c72bba.jpg

Jawohl, das stimmt! :DL

[Schöneboom]

By the time our makeshift antenna was installed, we were leaving the Aeolians behind. Over the bow, the delicate strand swayed with the slightest breeze, catching the sunlight like the thread of a spider web. Rolf stood watch on the bridge; in his pocket he kept a pair of wire cutters in case of a crash dive.

The rest of us crowded by the radio shack, waiting. Oskar switched from one shortwave band to another, turning dials and listening intently.

"Well? Anything?"

"The signal's weak, Herr Kaleun," Oskar replied. "But I'm getting something... Hang on..."

He began to jot down letters on his notepad. Pure gibberish, not words at all -- just what we were hoping for. Oskar smiled and nodded.

"It works!" Heinrich exclaimed. At last, we were no longer alone.

I handed Anton the Enigma machine. "Quick, compose a status report! Keep it brief!"

"Jawohl, Herr Kaleun!" he said, carrying the machine to our mess table.

I turned to Heinrich and Willi. "Just wait, next thing you know, BdU will complain that I should've sent more reports!"

Oskar finished transcribing the incoming message, then adjusted the longwave receiver. "Hmm... This might be what Leutnant Brunner had in mind." He flicked a switch; a lilting tenor voice crooned over the intercom, something about Napoli. Accompanied by a mandolin dripping with sentimentality.

Anton gestured and bellowed, "Aayyy, that's-a my-a Italia!!" We burst into giggles.

A few minutes later, Oskar was transmitting our coded report to BdU while Anton deciphered the just-received radiogram. Pressing the Enigma keys and writing the converted letters one by one, he sighed, "It's a contact report from U-81. They spotted a task force, but it's too fast for them to intercept."

"Guggenberger's boat," I said. "Well, at least he's still in the fight." Though I liked Friedrich, like many other skippers, I was jealous, too. Who wouldn't be? The first thing he did upon sneaking into the Med was to sink the Ark Royal. Instant Knight's Cross, on his third patrol! The lucky dog!

Heinrich seemed to be reading my mind. "He'll be a desk skipper soon. Just like Frauenheim."

Good old Fritz, our Flotilla Chief -- and my former classmate from Crew 30. No war patrols for two years. All the changes I'd seen, he only heard about.

"It takes a different sort of cunning to climb that ladder," I said. "You have to know the right people. Always say the right things."

Heinrich merely nodded. Naval office politics was one can of worms he wasn't about to open. Willi, on the other hand, was too young to know better.

"Well, Herr Kaleun, you have a Knight's Cross, too," he said brightly. "That ought to get you to Kerneval sooner or later, eh?"

I smiled, but it must have looked terribly cynical. There was an awkward silence.

"ALAAARRRRMMMM!"

[Kremmen]

Gripping stuff :up:

[Schöneboom]

"Two fighters, bearing 120, coming in fast!" cried Rolf as he slammed the upper tower hatch shut.

Heinrich and I leapt into the Zentrale and dodged the men from astern charging towards the Bugraum.

"Full speed ahead! Rudder, hard to starboard!" I ordered.

The forward batteries gave us a bit more push this time, but it wasn't enough. Before the tower went under, we heard and felt the 20 mm cannon shells blasting through the deck against the pressure hull. A thunderous BANG! overhead made us jump.

"What the hell?!" Anton gasped.

"Ach, Scheisse!" groaned Heinrich, "They hit our flak ammo!!" Everyone looked upward, imagining the damage to the tower and everything in it.

"Rudder, hard to port!" Evasive action was futile. The second plane raked us with more cannon fire from stern to bow.

As we dove, we heard more BANGS, followed by a loud burbling outside. Though the fighters hadn't bombed us, something was very, very wrong.

"L.I.!!!" a voice cried from the engine room. "Diesel induction valve won't shut!!!"

Heinrich blanched -- I will never forget the horror on his face. "L.I., get on it!" I told him. "Rolf, you have the conn!" Heinrich and Bootsmann Roitner ran astern.

"Mein Gott!" exclaimed Rolf, "We're losing compressed air!" Bewildered, we stared at the central air gauge needle as it plummeted faster than the depth needle.

"The shells must've ruptured our air tanks! Hold steady at 30 meters!" I ran back to the engine room, where Heinrich and Roitner struggled with the stuck valve while water sprayed from both engines.

"PUSH!! PUSH!! PUT YOUR WEIGHT INTO IT!!!" cried Heinrich. Even with both men straining with all their might, the hand-wheel refused to budge.

"L.I.! We're losing compressed air!" My words stopped him like a slap in the face.

"Please, Herr Kaleun, surface the boat now!" he pleaded.

"We CAN'T surface now!! Those planes will kill us!!"

Heinrich's voice trembled; he seemed on the verge of cracking. "The induction valve must've been damaged by the ammo explosion," he panted. "The port diesel's flooded!"

His eyes darted wildly, his mind taking it all in, weighing the options. Suddenly he snapped out of his manic reverie. "Must check the air system!" he blurted. "Roitner, stay on that valve! Kern, help him! And add more lime to the after battery compartment!"

Heinrich and I ran back to the Zentrale, where he and Stabsbootsmann Bischoff found out what remained of our air supply. Heinrich took deep breaths to steady himself. "Well, they got our external tanks, all right, but we might have just enough air left in the internal ones to surface."

Behind us, Matrosengefreiter Wintzer called out, "Port No. 2 ballast vent is stuck open!" We saw him, red-faced, working the overhead lever repeatedly to no avail.

Heinrich told Wintzer to step aside. Closing his eyes, he shoved the lever back and forth to its limits, applying steady pressure. It seemed he could feel through the handle what was wrong with the mechanism that extended all the way to the port saddle-tank.

"Verdammt!" he muttered at last. "The vent itself is bent. Blasted thing won't seat properly. Can't be fixed from inside."

"L.I., what's our situation?" I asked. His earlier look of sheer terror had changed to a deep, resigned irritation with the world and everyone in it. So I expected some good news.

"We're not going to die just yet," he replied. Roitner poked his head into the Zentrale to report, "Diesel induction valve seems to be closed, L.I. At least the flooding's stopped."

Heinrich glanced over at the panel of indicator lights. "It doesn't read closed here. I'll bet it's still leaking, just slowly. Good work anyway. I'll be there in a minute."

"Can we stay under for a few hours, at least?" I asked.

Heinrich pondered, then sighed, "All right. Three hours. Even if we can't blow this No. 2 tank, we'll get back up there."

"That means we'll be listing, won't we?" Rolf interjected.

"Ja, ja, we'll transfer water to the starboard tanks to trim the boat. But we're not out of the woods yet. If the diesel induction valve still leaks, the engine can't be fully drained till we're on the surface."

"How long will that take?" I asked.

"At least one hour before we can restart the engine," said Heinrich. "We'll still have the e-motors to sail with."

"Can we dive the boat again if we have to?"

Heinrich snorted. "Dive again? Ja, ja, we can always dive again, Herr Kaleun. It's the coming back up that I'm not so sure about."

[unterseemann]

Brilliant!

[Snestorm]

I'm locked into this story.

Talk about suspense!

[Schöneboom]

For the next hour, Heinrich met with all the machinists and damage-control teams, referring often to the boat's internal diagrams spread out on his table. He was in his element: the Maestro planning a concert with his orchestra. When the boat surfaced, every man would know where to be, what to do, with whom, and in what order. No wasted time, no wasted motion.

I saw Rolf watching this in the Zentrale. "You were right, Herr Kaleun," he said in a low voice. "This really is his boat."

Rolf, Anton, Willi and I had a lunch meeting in the mess. "Hard to believe, eh?" I said. "The Royal Air Force, north of Sicily. How the hell did those fighters get through?!"

"So much for the Luftwaffe and the Regia Aeronautica," Rolf said.

"I thought the Luftwaffe had radar on Sicily," said Willi.

"They do," Anton replied. "It's inexcusable!"

"Regardless of whose fault it is," I said, "The fact remains that the Tommies know where to find us now. By air or by sea, day or night."

"If we can't dive again," said Rolf, "We've lost our last defense against aerial attack. In the interests of saving the boat and crew, I recommend we divert to Napoli."

He had to say it. I knew someone would.

I replied tartly, "Tell me, what would we do in Napoli? Take the crew out for pizza? Catch the train to La Spezia??"

Anton spoke up. "Herr Kaleun, under the circumstances, no one would criticize if you--"

"Our boat is seaworthy, isn't it?!"

"Jawohl, Herr Kaleun! But... up there, we'll be just like any other surface vessel!"

Rolf added, "Except that in the event of sinking, our boat is harder to escape from."

They were correct, of course. I was seething when I turned to Willi. He seemed anxious; this must have been the closest thing to a fight among the officers he'd ever witnessed on board.

"So, does the rest of the crew think this way??" I asked sharply. As Willi spent more time among the Unteroffiziere, he was likely to know.

Willi glanced nervously at Rolf and Anton -- he wanted to please them, too. "I... I hear mixed opinions, Herr Kaleun," he stammered. "Some would gladly stop at the nearest port. Some are ready to keep going. But... they're worried, too."

"Danke, Oberfähnrich," I said, calming down. Heinrich had his plan to save the boat. I needed a plan, too, to save us as a cohesive unit.

I said to them, "Meine Herren, our mission now is to return to base. With our boat, if possible. No Italian port except La Spezia can perform major repairs on U-boats -- the only kind that matters in our case."

I let that sink in before continuing. "Since we've been detected, the smart thing to do is to change course. Instead of the direct route to La Spezia, we'll hug the coast, from Napoli to Piombino. If the worst happens, and we lose the boat anyway, we'll more than likely be rescued."

The men glanced at each other. Rolf nodded thoughtfully. I could see we were on the same page at last.

Anton sighed. "I was looking forward to pizza."

[Jimbuna]

Amazing http://www.psionguild.org/forums/images/smilies/wolfsmilies/thumbsup.gif




http://www.psionguild.org/forums/images/smilies/wolfsmilies/read2.gif

[Snestorm]

Onward.

[Schöneboom]

At the hydrophones, Oskar gave the all-clear sign. I entered the Zentrale as tools were being distributed to everyone assigned to Heinrich's "tour de force". In the engine room, Roitner and his team of machinists awaited their cue.

"Alles klar, Maestro?"

"Jawohl, Herr Kaleun," said Heinrich.

"Time for the overture, then. Surface!"

Heinrich ordered ahead full and hydroplanes set for surfacing. "Blow bow ballast tanks 1 and 2!" Air hissed through the lines. The bow came up smartly. "Blow main ballast tank No. 3!" Under Heinrich's gaze the air gauge needle fell rapidly.

"Stop!" He always kept some air in reserve. This was just enough -- we were rising.

He turned to me. "Once the tower's above water, there'll be a bit of 'improvisation'."

"Very modern of you, L.I."

He smirked and called out the depth. "Twenty meters."

Anton and his watch crew assumed their positions by the tower ladder, next to the first repair team, led by Kern. Then Rolf joined us.

We heard the familiar rush of water as the tower broke the surface. Anton and the lookouts hurried up the ladder. I saw by the gauges that we were still decks awash.

"E-motors, ahead slow," said Heinrich. "Planesmen, stay at your posts."

From the bridge, Anton gave the all-clear. Kern's group went up, their tool belts jangling. At this point, the bow was high, but the list to port was not nearly as bad as we had expected. With our external tanks mostly full, we were just too low in the water.

As arranged, Rolf took the conn and Heinrich went up the ladder. I followed him. The sea was very calm -- a stroke of luck for us.

We knew the damage would be bad, but to actually see it took my breath away. Kern's men, attached to safety lines, stepped carefully on what was left of the decking around the tower. It reminded me of the acqua alta in Venezia, which could sometimes create the illusion of walking on water.

The water was clear enough that we could see the gaping holes in the deck, in the exposed air tanks, in the saddle-tanks, and...

"Lieber Gott," I gasped. The forward torpedo storage tube.

"Fritz sei Dank," said Heinrich. We were still alive thanks to Frauenheim's policy: the 29th Flotilla boats had recently stopped carrying external torpedoes because of this very hazard.

Kern called out from aft of the Wintergarten, or what used to be the Wintergarten. The upper flak platform was still there, but hanging in space, partly unsupported. The lower platform was entirely gone, just a huge hole.

Heinrich stopped short of where the bridge deck ended. "L.I.!" Kern yelled up, "Diesel induction line is ruptured!"

Given the routing of our diesel intakes, Heinrich had anticipated this. He hooked up his safety line and climbed down to the deck, avoiding the jagged metal and wood below. The gaping hole in the intake shaft, where it ran along the pressure hull, was still underwater.

"Verdammt! Must get the stern higher!" said Heinrich.

Far behind him, Matrosengefreiter Weber called out, "Dive Tank No. 1 is punctured!"

Heinrich gritted his teeth. "Of course, it would have to be that one!" He motioned Weber to come forward, to get his weight off the stern.

"Is everyone out of the Heckraum?!" This was pre-arranged; he was making sure.

"Jawohl, L.I.!"

"There's not enough air to blow all the tanks," I said to Anton. "Now comes the improvisation."

Facing astern, Heinrich crouched on the deck, the damaged induction line beside and beneath him.

"Blow Dive Tank 2!" he called out. His orders were relayed by one of the lookouts.

From the bridge, Anton and I watched for the boat's response. The tip of the stern broached. Good, but not enough.

I saw Kern report to Heinrich, pointing to the various external tanks, the punctured ones in particular. Heinrich took it in, scratching his beard.

"Pump all of Trim Tank 1 to Trim Tank 2!" he ordered.

The waterline slowly receded, exposing more of the after deck. Still not enough! Even from the bridge, I could see Heinrich losing his patience.

"Flood forward torpedo compensation tanks!"

Two of Kern's team retreated from the bow as it dipped, nearly submerging the deck gun. The waterline crept nearer the hole in the induction shaft. The galley hatch was fully exposed. Almost there!

"What's our speed now?!" The answer came back: "Two knots, L.I.!"

"Aft hydroplanes, down ten!" Heinrich yelled, "Come on, boat! Up! GET UP!!"

That did it! At last the break in the induction line was above the water. Right on cue, Weber and Kern brought out the welding kit and sheet metal.

"Bravo!" I called to the Maestro. With a parting wave, he disappeared down the galley hatch. On to the next movement: Roitner's team would drain and restart the diesel.

"Mensch! For a moment there I thought he would fire off our aft torpedoes," Anton snickered.

"That was next on his list, I think."

[Snestorm]

Love the details.

[timmy41]

haha, im enjoying this greatly :D
a great amount of detail and understanding has clearly gone into it!
do you have any background that have you the interest for this?

[Schöneboom]

[Danke, timmy41. I'm just another writer with a fanatical streak, esp. about historical accuracy. The tech info is easier to find nowadays, Gott sei Dank!]


I remained on the bridge while Heinrich supervised the draining of the port diesel. It was crowded enough down there without spectators. The rest of Kern's team not involved with patching the induction line focused on only the most critical repairs necessary for our journey home. The rest would be left to the shipyard.

"Good thing no one was on the bridge when that ammo exploded," said Anton. A shudder went through me. I recalled that fateful morning at Lampedusa, when our whole flak team was turned to Hackfleisch before my eyes -- on this tower.

I acknowledged Anton with only a nod. I'm sure he knew what was bothering me -- he, too, had seen the bodies. And here we were again, not quite sitting ducks, but close enough. The diesel fuel slick trailing behind us was noticeably larger now. It was as if our boat were a wounded sea animal, bleeding in the water.

Was this how Becker felt that day? I wondered. His boat was stranded in the harbour, still being repaired when the bombers came. I remembered the joviality that masked his desperation. It was as if he knew that his luck had finally run out.

I turned away from the twisted remains of the Wintergarten and surveyed the horizon through my binoculars. Anton did likewise.

"Once the L.I. gets the diesel started," I said, "He'll use the exhaust to blow the remaining ballast tanks."

"Just the ones without holes in them, I assume."

"Ja, trimming this boat will keep him busy, all right," I replied. "There's still the matter of what we'll do if--"

"If we're attacked again. I've been thinking about it, too, Herr Kaleun."

I looked down at the deck gun; the barrel made a small wake as it cut through the water. Anton saw me looking, as I intended.

"Useless thing, isn't it?" I said. "I'd gladly trade it for another flak gun. Maybe one of those new 37 mm guns they keep promising."

Anton shook his head in disgust. "Everyone thinks of us Germans as masters of efficiency. If only they saw our procurement process!"

"Ja ja... Factions in the Wehrmacht. Arms makers vying for contracts. You just know there's money being passed under the table!"

"They get rich, and we get killed. A perfect little racket," said Anton. I couldn't help thinking of Eva's father. Was he one of those types? You never know about people.

"Well, I'll see about getting us more flak guns, if they ever show up," I said. "But right now, all we have is that thing."

His eyes widened. "You're not joking, are you..."

"I wish I were, Anton. I know it's nearly impossible. So I can't order you to man the deck gun. But it's something to consider. Any chance is better than none at all, eh?"

"In that case, we might as well bring out the Mausers and MP-40s, too," he replied. He wasn't joking, either.

"There are always alternatives," I said. I felt a muscle in my face twitch. I couldn't tell if he noticed it.

"Herr Kaleun," he said, "As I see it, if the planes come back, our alternative is to go below, put on our Tauchretters, and wait for the explosions."

"So it would appear," I said.

He was struggling to look Fate in the eye, as I was. Then, his expression relaxed. He had made his choice.

"Well, if we go down, better to go with all guns blazing, eh?"

I took a long, deep breath. We resumed watching the horizon.

Karl-Heinz poked his head through the galley hatch. "Herr Kaleun! The L.I. says the engine's drained and re-assembled! They're ready to start her up!"

[maillemaker]

This is an awesome story.

I can't wait to see if they make it or die!

Steve

[Snestorm]

This is the most enjoyable reading I've done in a very long time.

It's addictive!

[Schöneboom]

The sound of the diesel starting was never more gratifying. The deep rumble, the first belch of smoke. Music to our ears.

Anton and I noticed the hull rising, thanks to Heinrich blowing the ballast tanks with diesel exhaust. But our list to port increased as well. Had he added more ballast to starboard to compensate, that would have kept us low in the water, thus cutting our speed. Not acceptable.

"Poor L.I.," Anton said. "This puzzle must be driving him crazy."

I called into the voice tube, "Ahead full! Steer to new course, 340 degrees!" Even without charging the batteries, we had at least nine hours to go before reaching the relative safety of the coast. And it was less than two hours to sundown.

I wanted to relax and savor the sunshine and the gentle wind on my face. But that was impossible; the fighters had robbed me of any sense of certainty. With a nagging apprehension I went below.

Oskar was playing a jazz recording on the gramophone. "Mind turning it down a bit?" I asked. "I like jazz, too, but--"

"Of course, Herr Kaleun," he answered. "Looks like the Tommies are done with us, eh? Must be tea time on Malta."

"Tea time, ja... But while those pilots are having tea and crumpets, maybe they're being briefed for their next mission." I could just see their commander now, pointing to the wall map with the circle drawn on it.

From my locker I retrieved the latest intelligence report for the Mediterranean Theatre, issued prior to our departure from La Spezia. I re-read it, searching for a detail that caught my attention for a moment, before being swept away in the flood of last-minute preparations.

Just before the changing of the watch, I found Willi and Dietrich by their adjacent bunks. Dietrich towered over Willi like a big brother, which in effect he was, especially as a lookout. After years serving on various boats, his face was reddened and scoured by the elements. Though Dietrich's eyes were perpetually squinty from salt spray, he knew how to use them. Plus he understood the fine art of guiding a newly-hatched officer without ever appearing insubordinate.

"Thought you should see what we're up against," I said, directing their attention to the report. "Just before we left La Spezia, 272 Squadron arrived on Malta. And they brought with them the latest Beaufighters."

Anton was just coming off his watch. "Anton, you better see this, too," I said, showing them the aircraft recognition card.

"Looks a lot like the Blenheim," said Willi. The rest of his watch crew crowded around the mess table and stared at the twin-engined fighter-bomber.

"You could say it's a descendant. Only much deadlier. Packed with cannons, machine guns, and bombs. And radar, too."

"Tailor-made for killing U-boats, sounds like," said Anton.

"It can fly all the way to Napoli and back, with fuel to spare," I said. "If the Tommies are coming to deliver the coup de grâce, chances are they'll be coming in this."

Willi and his lookouts nodded gravely. Anton's watch crew made way for them in the Zentrale. As Willi started up the ladder, I told him, "The moment you see anything, call the gun crew on deck and clear the bridge at once! Understood?"

"Jawohl, Herr Kaleun!"

Mein Gott, I thought, why isn't this kid in school??

Dietrich set his giant boot on the first rung and said, "I'll be on the port quarter, Herr Kaleun. No worries, eh?"

[Snestorm]

"No worries, eh?"

I love the understatement of it.

[Schöneboom]

By this time the Aeolians were out of sight. The Tyrrhenian Sea never seemed more vast. I could not shake the feeling that some kind of reckoning was at hand -- if not for the whole crew, for myself at least.

Every man who remained with my first U-boat, U-53, was already dead. I remembered their faces vividly. All the good times we shared. We had it so much easier then, but of course we didn't see it that way. I wondered if I would be seeing them again soon.

What tormented me most in these last hours of daylight was the corrosive self-doubt and fear that I could not share with anyone aboard. Should I have diverted to Salamis, or Taranto, or Messina, when I had the chance? Did my fear of another massacre like the one at Lampedusa cloud my judgment? Or was it my pride that kept me from seeking refuge? It was too late now to change anything. Even if we had steered due east to reduce our travel time to the mainland, we would have remained deep within the combat radius of Malta's aircraft.

Can one ever fully prepare for death? Unless one is absolutely convinced of what awaits on the other side, I think not. Either the lights go out permanently, and there's no one left to suffer anything, or there is something, and someone to experience it. A big difference.

I took out my life-vest and Tauchretter and laid them on the bed. I didn't want to put on either one. There would be time enough later. And if there wasn't enough...

"ALAAARRRMMMM!!! GUN CREW ON DECK!!!"

"ALL HANDS TO BATTLE-STATIONS!!!"

Despite the bell-ringing, there was no crash-dive stampede. I jumped into the Zentrale and saw the lookouts drop in, one after the other. Dietrich landed heavily on the deck plate, still wearing his dark glasses.

"Aircraft in the sun!" he panted, pointing west. Above us, Willi pulled down the upper hatch, out of habit.

"Leave it open!" I yelled. "I'm coming up!"

Without waiting for him, I raced up the ladder. To make way, he crammed himself between the TDC and the attack periscope. The poor kid was terrified, but I had no time for him. I put on my sunglasses and climbed up onto the bridge.

As Anton and his gun crew prepared the deck gun for firing, I called down the hatch to Heinrich, "Ahead maximum speed! L.I., give me everything she's got! Rudder, hard to port! Steer to new course 240!" By aiming off the starboard bow, we would make the port list work for us!

The plane was still just a speck, flying low, almost obscured by the blinding sun. Its crew surely had no trouble seeing us, though.

Anton signaled to me; the gun was loaded and ready. The crew pointed it towards the sun and cranked up the elevation.

"OPEN FIRE!" I yelled. The first shot blasted out with a tongue of flame. I wasn't waiting to ID the plane. We had anticipated an attack out of the sun. Our tactic was to fill the air with shells and pray. At this range, a direct hit would've been a miracle.

Time seemed to slow down. I heard every clank of the gun as the breech opened, the smoking brass hit the deck, and the loader slammed in a new shell. The layer pulled the firing lever and BOOM! Four seconds, at most.

Another shot. Then another. And another. I couldn't even see the splashes. The plane continued its approach. Given the absence of mid-air flak bursts, I wondered if the pilot even knew he was being fired upon!

Shading my eyes from the glare, I tried to make out the plane's shape. By now I could just see the twin engine nacelles. A Beaufighter, of course. Our gunners frantically cranked the elevation to keep up.

As our shells zoomed uselessly in the Beaufighter's general direction, I saw the plane bank; a slight course change. Going for our bow. Anton and the gunners! I shook like a leaf. It was Lampedusa all over again.

Please, Lieber Gott, not them! Take me, but spare them! Their lives haven't even begun yet!

Our gun was nearly at maximum elevation, still firing to no avail. Stricken with dread, I stared at the incoming plane, just beyond the sun's disc and easier to see now. At its new angle of attack, something seemed odd. Through my binoculars, I saw the plane's protruding nose.

Mein Gott, it's an engine! A trimotor!

"CEASE FIRE!!!" I waved my arms overhead and yelled until Anton got the message and stopped the layer from firing again.

The plane banked further to cross our path. Now its unique shape was clearly recognizable.

"It's Italian!" I called to the gun crew. The Sparviero droned by, its port engine sputtering. Battle damage, perhaps. They just want to get home, too, I thought. Buona Fortuna.

Through the cockpit window the pilot made an emphatic gesture to us, but at this distance, the intended meaning was unclear.

Anton shook his fist and bellowed, "IDIOTS!! WE COULD'VE KILLED YOU!!!"

Suddenly I had to lean against the bridge and catch my breath. Too much for one day!

[timmy41]

i just had to laugh at how intense reading that was to me, was literally glued to the screen!
:yeah:

[Jimbuna]

Tremendous http://www.psionguild.org/forums/images/smilies/wolfsmilies/thumbsup.gif

[Schöneboom]

I heard the men below laugh and cry out as the news spread from bow to stern. We were all giddy with relief.

"Italian?!" "Ja, Italian!!" "Gott sei Dank!!"

Willi poked his head up through the hatch. "Herr Kaleun? Everything all right?" I must've looked like a wreck.

I nodded, pulled myself together and ordered, "Gun crew, stand down! Watch crew, on the bridge!" Then, into the voice tube, "Resume previous course! Ahead full!"

On re-entering the Zentrale I announced, "Swimming's been cancelled, meine Herren."

Rolf and Heinrich gladly doffed their life-vests; the rest of the men followed their lead. Everyone felt it: we had a new lease on life.

"What on Earth were those Italians thinking, coming at us like that?!" Heinrich asked.

"Their plane was damaged," I said. "They didn't have the luxury of taking the long way round."

"No one got hurt, that's the important thing," said Rolf.

Peering forward through the open hatches, I saw Anton relating the tale blow-by-blow to a rapt audience of Unteroffiziere. Complete with the Italian pilot's rude gesture; at least that's how Anton saw it. The men split their sides laughing.

"I guess we're a lucky boat, eh?" I said to Rolf. He nodded.

We continued undisturbed for the rest of the evening. After dinner, when we finally reached the coast, I went to the radio shack. Oskar had just put a polka record on the gramophone. He lifted the needle when I switched on the intercom mike.

"Well done, men," I said. "The Tommies used all their tricks, but they still couldn't sink us. Even the Regia Aeronautica couldn't sink us!" Laughter and cheers burst out.

"If we've been lucky on this patrol," I added, "I doubt it's due to rabbit's feet or anything like that. I can only conclude that the luck comes from you, meine Herren. You're the finest crew I've ever served with. Danke."

I heard applause from fore and aft. Oskar gave me a thumbs-up. His smiling eyes flicked towards the Bugraum, as a hint. Of course, I hadn't forgotten.

"Ja, meine Herren, it's time..."

http://www.thomas-loderer.com/fotografien/Becks_Bier.jpg

[Schöneboom]

The final 500 kilometers of our journey to La Spezia were fortunately uneventful, with only sporadic sightings of Italian fishing boats and merchant vessels.

Though every passing hour brought us closer to safety, my nerves steadily deteriorated. The nightmares were even worse than those I'd had right after Lampedusa, which made me afraid to sleep. Lying awake in my bunk, for the first time I suffered intense claustrophobia. To look up at the curved wood paneling made me feel I was inside a coffin.

Deprived of sleep, I became lightheaded and hypersensitive. When a crewman dropped a spanner on the deck, I nearly jumped out of my skin. Everyone tried not to notice my shameful condition. Had I been seen on a city street, I could have been mistaken for an alcoholic tramp.

I had to carry on, pretending as best I could that I was still fit to command. The next night, during one of my frequent visits to the bridge to escape my tomb, Rolf finally whispered to me, "Herr Kaleun, I'd be glad to take on some of your duties until we reach La Spezia."

"I'm fine, Rolf," I said with barely-suppressed rage. "Mind your own duties! You'll have your chance to command soon enough!" I regretted my outburst, but I didn't apologize.

I knew something was broken inside. When I shut my eyes, all the horrors I had ever witnessed and imagined swept over me like a rogue wave. I wanted to believe that all I needed was a long furlough.

One vision sustained me during that interminable night before our return to La Spezia. Standing under the full moon, I imagined her beside me, on a balcony overlooking the calm, glittering sea, in a world finally at peace.

It was not Eva I was thinking of.

After breakfast the next morning we came upon a minesweeper south of the harbour. We announced ourselves by Varta-lamp, then drew alongside to communicate by megaphone. They radioed the base about our impending arrival and escorted us the rest of the way.

Our four victory pennants could not be displayed in the usual way; both periscopes were jammed in the down position, and the Wintergarten railing and flagpole had been blown off. Still, we managed to string up the pennants from the DF loop antenna to the deck gun.

Given our severely damaged decking, I decided against having the men stand on it for the cruise into port. As we approached the breakwater, Heinrich joined me on the bridge.

"I hardly ever see you up here, L.I."

"We're home, Herr Kaleun. That's reason enough," he said. "Sorry I couldn't fix this port list."

"Doesn't matter now. They'll take care of it in drydock."

"If we were based in Kiel or Lorient, and we brought the boat home in this condition, they'd say, 'It's totaled, forget the refit! We'll get you a new boat, fresh from the shipyard. Better for everyone that way.'"

"That's not going to happen here," I said.

He shook his head ruefully. "Not in La Spezia. No new boat for us. We'll fix this wreck and send it out again and again and again... till it doesn't come back."

"Ja, ja... She'll need a lot of inspection and testing. You've got your work cut out for you."

"I'm still taking my furlough, of course," said Heinrich. "Don't want to go crazy, you know." He glanced at me again, instantly regretting his choice of words.

"You and me both, Heinrich."

[timmy41]

it would be awesome if someone could illustrate all this! would make an excellent short story

[Schöneboom]

The first sign that we might not be receiving the standard heroes' welcome was the crowd's initial reaction. As we drew closer to the dock, the spectators who had been cheering and waving suddenly stopped and stared. Jaws dropped. They had not expected to see such a mutilated U-boat. It took them only a moment to snap out of it and resume their hearty greetings. The press photographers were discreetly hustled away.

Fritz Frauenheim, our Flotilla Chief, did not come aboard once he saw there was almost no deck to stand on. It hardly mattered; our men were more than eager to come ashore. The hunger in their eyes was plain to everyone. The thanks of a grateful nation was always appreciated, of course. But upon their first glimpse of female flesh in weeks, they had no need for the formalities. A quick wash and change of clothes, then look out, La Spezia! They didn't call us the Grey Wolves for nothing!

"Menschenkinder!" Fritz exclaimed as he shook my hand. He couldn't take his eyes off the demolished conning tower behind us. "Your boat!"

"We, uh, ran into a little trouble," I said.

Fritz sighed and glanced at Kptlt. Erich Zürn, the Flotilla Engineering Officer beside him. Zürn's critical eye was already tallying up the damages. "Welcome home, Ullmann," he said with a forced smile.

"Jawohl! Glad to have you back!" said Fritz with renewed vigor. "Let's get you cleaned up, eh? There'll be a party for you in the Officers Club!"

To be back on terra firma was a bizarre sensation, but one that I always associated with coming home. Wobbling on my sea legs, I laughed like a drunkard on my way to the officers' barracks. A long hot shower, a nap, a fresh uniform, and I felt almost human again. Though I never believed that any Divine Being would lower Himself to take sides in this ghastly war, I felt like thanking someone for my life. So Gott sei Dank!

"Where are all the U-boatmen?" asked Anton, helping himself to a glass of prosecco. The Officers Club was less crowded than we'd ever seen it; the vast majority of those present were base personnel, in the company of the alluring local women.

Fritz piled his plate with Italian delicacies from the buffet. "Eight of our boats are still on patrol, near Algeria. Everyone else is on leave."

"Any news about U-331?" I asked.

"The Tommies rescued 17 men, including von Tiesenhausen," said Fritz. "He's wounded, but expected to recover."

"Now he gets a free ticket to England," I said. "What a shame."

"Ja, just like Baur. At least most of his crew survived."

Rolf joined us. "Herr Kapitänleutnant, is it true that our boat was the only one patrolling east of Tunisia?"

Fritz nodded. "Sorry you missed out on Algeria. But we needed a diversion."

From behind me came a jolly slap on the back. "Good job, Ullmann!" It was Kptlt. Gunter Jahn, our flotilla's newest member. "You beat me this time!"

"What do you mean?" I asked. Gunter and Fritz snickered. Clearly I was still in a post-patrol haze, or else his meaning would have been obvious.

Our musical entertainment was provided by three identically-dressed young women who sang in close harmony, like an Italian version of the Andrews Sisters. As they say, you had to be there. We didn't understand a word, but we showered them with lusty adoration anyway.

"You know, they sound just like the Trio Lescano," said Heinrich between bites of prosciutto. "Pity, what happened to those girls."

"Absurd is more like it!" I muttered. Like the Comedian Harmonists in Germany, the Lescano sisters were banned in Italy, their careers ruined -- all because of their Jewish mother. Fritz's expression had a diplomatic tightness, but by this time I was too drunk to care.

After the singers took their bows and departed, Kptlt. Zürn took the stage. Finally I realized what Gunter had meant by his earlier remark.

"Meine Dame und Herren!" announced Zürn. "By unanimous decision of the 29th Flotilla Engineering Department, this month's Wreck Prize is hereby awarded to... Kptlt. Peter Ullmann, U-77!!! Let's give him a big hand!!!"

Thunderous applause, whistles and cheers. With my best fake smile and a beer in my hand, I stepped up to accept der Wrackpreis des Monats, a battered trophy cup engraved with the names of its previous recipients. Half of whom were already dead. Paulssen. Friederich. Neumann. Becker. Schütze. But of course we couldn't let that spoil our fun! We were thumbing our noses at Death, after all.

Having witnessed the ceremony before, I knew my part:

"I'm sure I don't deserve this award. Shouldn't we wait for the other boats to return from patrol first?"

"Ullmann, if any boat were more kaputt than yours, it would be at the bottom of the Med! Accept it, you've won!!"

"All right then, if you insist. Danke schön. At least now you guys will have something to keep you busy, eh?!"

"Ach, ja! We're thrilled beyond words!" said Zürn, holding back tears. "How honored we are, with eight boats due to return soon, that against insurmountable odds you brought your wreck allll the way home for us to repair, when you could've just scuttled her off the coast!" The audience fell into hysterics. Even Heinrich spat his beer, he laughed so hard.

I examined the dented trophy in my hand. Our macabre front-line humor required each recipient to add some "battle damage" to the Wrackpreis, here on stage. After having passed through the hands of ten drunken, half-crazed skippers, it actually did resemble our boat!

I summoned Rolf, who fetched me a pistol. I set the trophy down and shot a hole clean through it (and the stage). The Wrackpreis tumbled end-over-end, and the crowd went wild! The jazz band started playing. I guzzled my beer and laughed like a maniac. I realized, these people are insane. We're all insane!

At some point, before I passed out, Fritz said, "Ullmann, you will come to my office tomorrow at 1330 for your debriefing. Klar?"

Nice of him to let me sleep it off, I thought. But his tone hinted that this might not be a pleasant meeting.

[Schöneboom]

"Three months??!!"

"Don't act so surprised," said Fritz, leaning back in his chair. "You know we must give priority to the less damaged boats, to get the maximum number operational as quickly as possible."

He was right, of course. What was particularly galling was that he was enjoying my frustration, or so it seemed to me.

"What'll I do for the two months after my furlough?"

Fritz admired his panoramic view of the harbour. "I'm sure we'll find you a job around here. Or I might lend you to FdU in Rome."

"And my crew? What about them?"

"Well, there's your silver lining. Everyone will go back for additional training. You'll have a better crew, and a better boat, too. I assume you want the latest improvements."

"More flak guns," I said. "The 37 mm guns."

"Ask me for those next summer," he replied. "What I can offer you now are some 12.7 mm Bredas."

"Italian machine guns?"

"They're actually quite good. Our engineers have fabricated special mounts for them, so they're compact and streamlined when stowed."

"I'll take two, plus the 20 mm Zwillings," I said.

"Done. And the FaT torpedoes? They're finally here, but we'll need to modify two of the forward tubes for them."

"Ja, let's do it. The boat's being rebuilt anyway."

Fritz smiled. He knew I wouldn't like what was coming.

"Your 1WO Leutnant Blum will transfer to Pillau for commander's school, as you recommended. But I need three more men to transfer from your crew."

He had his pen ready to take down the names. "Ullmann, if you don't pick them--"

"Ja ja, all right," I said. "Matrosengefreiter Lindner..."

Fritz started writing. "Experience, Ullmann. Otherwise, what's the point?"

"Matrosenobergefreiter Russbild..."

He nodded and kept writing. "And an Unteroffizier... Come on, we all must make sacrifices."

Easy for him to say! This was like pulling my own teeth out. "Bootsmann Risse."

"Sehr gut. Now that wasn't so bad, was it?" He smiled again.

At the dentist's, this would be my cue to rinse my mouth and spit. Of course Fritz wasn't done with me yet, not by a long shot.

He leafed through my logbook. "On your return via Greece, you had the option of putting in at Salamis for repairs. Why didn't you?"

I replied, "They could not have made our boat battle-ready again, not without weeks of work."

"Oh, but they could have replaced your radio antenna easily," Fritz said. "Possibly your radar detector as well. Given your situation, you should've had these repairs done before crossing the Ionian."

"As I see it, the fact that we could not use the radio may have saved our lives!"

He smirked as if I were delusional. "So, you know better than our scientists, eh? Let me tell you what they think: the Allies have some kind of long-range sensor to pick up our boats' infrared emissions--"

"You've got to be kidding! Why should they bother with that when they have radar?! Don't you see?! It's us!! We're giving ourselves away with our constant radio reports!!"

"Enough, Ullmann! What concerns me is the reasoning behind your decision. I suspect it had more to do with Lampedusa than anything else. Admit it, you were afraid of ending up like Becker!"

He had me cornered. Without warning I flinched, as if I had touched a live wire.

"Chilly in here, isn't it?" I said. Fritz wasn't fooled for a moment. His sudden attempt at sympathy wasn't very convincing either, but I wasn't about to stop him.

"Peter, you're a gifted commander, and I'd hate to lose you," he said. "But it's time for you to think about your career beyond the front line."

"I'm all right, really. I just need some rest."

"Ja ja, of course. But listen to me anyway." He laid a hand on his mahogany desktop. "This may look like just a desk to you, but in fact it's my life raft. I earned it."

"I never said you didn't."

"But do you understand how I got here? I'll give you a hint: it wasn't just my tonnage or my seniority."

"Oh, I get the picture."

"Do you? Anyone can see you're turning into one of the Kaputtenhelden, like Becker. If you plan to stay on front-line boats, you'll need a thicker hull." He tapped the side of his head.

"I doubt Engineering can make me one of those," I replied.

"Then start pulling strings, Peter. There aren't enough life rafts to go around."

[frau kaleun]

Awesome.

For those of you who've never tried it, lemme just say that writing believable, natural sounding dialogue is usually one of the most difficult things to accomplish. A lot of people who get paid big, big bucks to do just that can barely manage it on a good day.

We are getting to read it FOR FREE.

:woot: :rock: :salute:

[Schöneboom]

[Vielen Dank, Frau Kaleun! That made my day. I will have something to say on that subject. But first...]

In the officers' locker room, I packed my clothes and collected my mail. There were three letters from Eva, four from my parents, and a slew of Weihnachtskarten from friends and relatives in Germany and France. The sight of these letters briefly lifted my spirits; this room was a somber place, given the number of lockers that had been emptied out. Those lockers would not be reassigned, at least not till next year.

Lt. Ludwig Brugger came in, pushing a mailroom cart. Luddi, as we called him, was a relic of the Kaiserliche Marine, whose destiny it was to run La Spezia's mailroom. To him fell the thankless task of collecting personal effects and sending them to the next of kin.

Luddi got out his master key and opened the lockers of U-595's officers. No one had heard from them for three weeks, and we assumed the worst.

I asked, "Na, Luddi, what's the news?"

He laid Kptlt. Quaet-Faslem's duffle bag in the cart. "U-595 went down off the Algerian coast. The whole crew survived, but they got captured by the Amerikaners."

That made three boats gone. And Faslem had just broken through the Strait of Gibraltar. None of us had even met him!

"Ironic, ja?" said Luddi. "Their things made it here, but they didn't. Mensch... Faslem's got a wife and two kids at home."

I imagined his poor wife opening the door and seeing our messenger with his bag. She'd probably break down on the spot.

"Luddi, can you give me his home address? I'll write to his wife."

"Certainly, Herr Kaleun. I'll just be a minute." Luddi removed the bag of Oblt. von Mirbach, U-595's L.I.

Just as Luddi wheeled his cart out, Rolf entered; he saw the bags in it.

"Dead?" he asked.

"Captured by the Amis," I said. "All of them."

Rolf sighed, opened his locker and started packing. "At least they're alive. I pity them and their families, though. Especially with the holidays coming."

"Rolf, what I said to you earlier, on the boat... It wasn't personal, and it wasn't professional, either... I'm sorry."

"It's all right, Herr Kaleun. We were under a lot of stress."

I nodded. Our eyes drifted to the empty lockers. "You're sure you still want to go through with this?"

"I've made it this far," he said. "There's no way I'll turn back now!"

"I felt the same when I was in your position." But that was another time, when one rarely saw the lockers being emptied. At that moment I realized Rolf was a different sort of creature; or perhaps the war had changed him.

His eyes gleamed. "To be honest, I'm looking forward to more action."

Luddi returned with his cart empty. He handed me a slip of paper with Faslem's address. "Danke, Luddi," I said. "I might not see you till after the Neujahr, so Frohe Weihnachten."

"Frohe Weihnachten, Herr Kaleun. One more thing. This letter just arrived..."

I recognized the handwriting, slipped the letter in my pocket, and closed my locker. "Na, Rolf, where are you taking your leave? Viareggio?"

He shook his head. "I've seen enough U-boat resorts. This is my last chance to see the real Italy. I'm going to Roma, Firenze, and Venezia, then home for the holidays. And you?"

"I haven't decided yet. I might spend a few days in Milano, and then... wander."

"A noble German tradition," he said, breaking into song. "Das Wandern ist des Müllers Lust..."

I joined in: "Das Wandern ist des Müllers Lust, Das Wa-an-dern!" We were like boys at school again, ready to go on holiday.

"Frohe Weihnachten, Rolf," I said, shaking his hand. "Mach's gut."

"Frohe Weihnachten, Herr Kaleun. It's been an honor to serve with you. And don't worry, things will turn around for us next year. You'll see." We saluted, and off he went.

While Luddi collected the bags of U-595's 1WO and 2WO, I opened the letter in my pocket. It was from Oberst Brandt, my handler in the Abwehr. As I was not officially in his chain of command, he cordially "invited" me to his office in Milano for a meeting. It was, of course, the kind of invitation that one never refused.

[Schöneboom]

The La Spezia Centrale station teemed with Italian and German sailors departing on leave or returning to duty. While checking the schedule board, I spotted Rebholz, Dietrich, and Bischoff in a compartment of a southbound train. We waved goodbye to each other as their train pulled out. Off to Viareggio, most likely.

I once visited the seaside villa reserved for our personnel down in Viareggio. Much like the ones in France, it was an idyllic self-contained fantasyland, complete with an imitation Bavarian tavern. All the gourmet food you could eat. Huge luxurious rooms with sweeping views. Female visitors permitted, of course. I used to think these resorts were heaven on earth. But I couldn't go back now.

I worried about Rolf. After everything we had endured together... Somehow the perils of combat that were eroding my sanity had become his favorite stimulant. I'd met such men before, but I never understood them. "Things will turn around for us next year. You'll see." And this was an intelligent man!

Waiting in the bar for the train to Milano, I had a glass of vino rosso with some bread and cheese. I opened Eva's letters and started reading. Like her parents, Eva used custom stationery emblazoned with the von Kleist coat of arms. For a woman of her class, subtlety was a virtue; one often had to read between the lines.

Compared to her nearly poetic letters last summer, I saw a gradual but unmistakable shift to a more mundane, diplomatic tone. No overt declaration of breaking up, but I grasped her key points without an Enigma machine. From her most recent letter:

"Lately my father has been introducing me to his younger associates in the Danzig shipping industry, including, of course, our Kriegsmarine liaisons. They are not all crashing bores, Gott sei Dank.

"For example, Kapitän zur See Schröder, who, though not exactly young in my view, is certainly bright and entertaining company. For obvious reasons, I cannot describe here precisely what changes are forthcoming. But rest assured that if (I mean, when!) our Type VII boats are better next year, he will deserve much of the credit.

"You are sorely missed here, of course. My father has pointed out that the warmth and sensuality of Italy might delay your return. As I am reminded of that book you love so dearly, 'The Odyssey', I wonder now if Odysseus ever explained his long absence to Penelope -- and if she believed him.

"Well, I must go now -- the Women's Auxiliary has to collect and sort donated clothing for our brave soldiers on the Ostfront. Tschuss, meine Liebe."

Ach... Time for another glass of wine.

[timmy41]

im still checking twice a day for a new post, these are great! :yeah:

[Jimbuna]

Rivetting stuff http://www.psionguild.org/forums/images/smilies/wolfsmilies/pirate.gif

[Schöneboom]

My train was, of course, "in ritardo". It was not just a sign of Mussolini's waning influence on the Italian work ethic. The conductor said the tracks had to be checked again for possible sabotage by the Resistance. Maybe it was only an excuse to go for a smoke. I passed the time in my train carriage reading letters from my parents.

My mother, bless her, was a paragon of consistency. Whether she intended it or not, her letters always took me back home, with news about our family and those sweet moments in everyday life that make all the difference, if one pays attention.

My father's letters were a very different sort of communication. In the days of the Republic, when I became old enough to vote, we had many heated political discussions at home. He was an outspoken constitutional monarchist, opposed to both Communism and Nazism. I recalled his words vividly, after we had witnessed a bloody street-fight between the Reds and the Brownshirts:

"If only these blockheads would wipe each other out and leave the rest of us alone! Gott help us if this rabble ever takes power! They'll be the death of us all!"

We voted in '32 and '33, not that it made any difference. By then the only parties that mattered were the Nazis, the Communists, and the Social Democrats. After that, my father became bitter and taciturn. Privately he talked about emigrating to Holland, but he never followed through. As it turned out, Holland would not have been distant enough anyway.

Father still had to blow off steam discreetly with those he trusted; in his letters, he employed what he called "Schattensprache", oblique language that could not be used as evidence against him. But if you knew the man well, his inflections would add a layer of meaning. His last letter contained a good example:

"You should have heard the wailing in the neighborhood when Munich beat the invincible Schalke, 2-0. You'd have thought the poor Schweine had lost everything they owned! But all winning streaks must come to an end, eh?

"The bombers came exactly one week later. No doubt my firm was on their target list. Their aim was lousy, but they managed to hit something anyway. Hence our new address. It's a small flat, with noisy neighbors, and my commute is longer, but we're alive and well. Just a bump in the road to the Thousand-Year Reich!

"Sorry our menu's rather limited these days, and there's only the couch for you. If you don't feel like staying long, we won't be offended, really. We'll keep the home fires burning. In the fireplace, I mean!"

Mein Gott.

I spotted Heinrich on the platform. Before he could board an adjoining carriage, I called out to him. He climbed in, threw his bag onto the rack next to mine, and plopped down in the seat opposite. He looked tired but well-dressed in fresh civvies. Except for the beard, he could've passed for one of the locals.

"Going straight to Dessau?" I asked.

"Lake Lugano first," he said. "A few days of real peace and quiet, then I'll go home."

"Good idea. I'm going to Milano first... Shopping for gifts."

He nodded. "I'm giving my wife a velvet scarf. She loves everything Italian."

"So, how did Zürn treat you? Did he give you grief about the boat?"

"Zürn thinks I'm a miracle-worker," he replied, almost embarrassed. "He wants me to teach at Gotenhafen next year."

"What?! Did you accept??"

"I told him I had to discuss it with you first."

"Ach, it was hard enough letting Rolf go!"

"That's the only reason Frauenheim didn't ask for me this time. But after the next patrol--"

"Verdammt! You're the best engineer in the flotilla, Heinrich! You can't leave!"

He sighed. "Frauenheim can take half your crew if you don't give him what he wants. And, to be honest, Peter... I couldn't turn down a teaching post. You know what will happen here when the Allies set up airbases in North Africa."

I was speechless. My world was coming apart at the seams. Why pretend otherwise?

"Ja... I'm ready to go, too," I said at last. "But it'll be harder for me. I made some blunders earlier in my career, and I'm still paying for them. Now I'll need something really big to put me over the top."

"Big? Like what, an aircraft carrier?"

"Could be that, or something else." I couldn't tell him about Oberst Brandt's invitation. But a top-secret mission... Surely someone up there would be impressed. "Let's just get our boat back in the water. One more patrol, eh? We'll make it one for the history books."

Heinrich just looked at me in silence. The doors slammed shut; the steam whistle blew. We felt a lurch as the train pulled out of the station.

"One for the history books," he said, weighing the odds. "Mamma Mia..."

[Schöneboom]

Heinrich busied himself by opening and reading his mail, mostly Weihnachtskarten. Every so often he would glance at me. It was the same look he gave the diesels whenever they sounded slightly off. This time, though, he couldn't give me a damage report.

He showed me one greeting card and said, "From my parents."

"How are they?" I asked.

"They're doing well." He had more to say, but it took an effort. More so because he was trying to hide the effort. While staring at the card, he found the words.

"When I joined up, I used to worry about my father as much as he worried about me," said Heinrich. "He was in the Great War."

"Was he wounded?"

"He caught some shrapnel, but that wasn't the worst of it. After the war... those were really hard times."

"For all of us," I said. "I remember when the money became almost worthless. I was too young then to understand why, but even so..."

He nodded and sighed. "My father was out of work for a long time... It drove him mad. For a while I was afraid he'd kill us all."

Heinrich gave me that look again, just for a second. He opened another card, gave it a quick read, then tossed it on the seat next to him.

"One day my father tried to shoot himself," he said, breathing harder. "My brother and I had to tackle him and wrestle the gun away. It was horrible... horrible."

"He could've done it when no one was around," I said. "Maybe he wanted you to stop him."

"Ja, I thought of that, too. But Mensch, he really scared us."

"Is he better now?" I asked.

"Much better. Eventually he got a job in a machine shop and worked his way up. Now he builds fuel injectors for Junkers."

"Glad to hear it." I didn't have to ask how his father had voted.

"He says he owes his life to Hitler... Things did improve for a while."

"Naja, they promised change."

Heinrich gazed out the window. "And we sure got it. Junge-Junge..."

I thought about Oberst Brandt and the arrangement we'd had. He had screened my crew to ensure there were no Party members among us. However, that did not rule out indirect Nazi connections. C'est la vie.

[Schöneboom]

At Milano Centrale I bade arrivederci to Heinrich; he went to catch his train to Switzerland and disappeared into the rush-hour throng. Under cloudy skies I crossed the bustling Piazza Duca d'Aosta and checked into the Albergo Gallia, an Art Nouveau grand hotel.

The room they gave me must have been the one reserved for Abwehr VIPs; though I'd been in a few posh hotels before, I was stunned. The marble bathroom alone was bigger than U-77's Zentrale and had stained-glass windows. I didn't mind the luxury one bit, and it was oddly comforting to be an anonymous stranger again, gazing out at other strangers as they walked home or rode the orange trams that rattled by.

Lying in the huge bed, I thought about her again... Veronika. That wasn't her real name, of course, but I preferred it over her Abwehr codename. It had been over two years since that night when I ferried her from Cadiz to Tangier on U-53. Since then, no one, not even Eva, had made such a profound impression on me. It was not just Veronika's beauty -- it was the awareness in her eyes. She saw what was going on, far more than I did then. Where was she now? Brandt would never tell me. Security reasons. I didn't know if she had feelings for me, if she thought of me at all. But I had no doubt she would have liked this room... this bed.

The next day I appeared at the offices of "Liedtke Srl" in one of the side streets off Via Luigi Galvani. In contrast to Roma, the nexus of political power, Milano was where the money lived. All business, like Frankfurt. Brandt's luscious secretary ushered me into his office, where he greeted me like a faithful old client. He still wore wire-rimmed glasses, but since our last meeting in Paris, his waistline had expanded somewhat. His gray suit, now Italian, was tailored to compensate. In response to my traditional salute, he gave his usual dismissive Heil Taxi.

Sitting down, I took in the stylish office decor -- nothing about it indicated this company's real purpose. Brandt observed me with his thin smile. "Like it?" he asked.

"Import-Export. Perfect cover," I replied. "What kind of merchandise?"

"Shoes, mainly. I must say the Italians are brilliant at this sort of thing. No moving parts!" he cackled. That laugh, and the glint in his eyes, unsettled me. Despite Brandt's prestigious education and career, there was another side to him. It was the money, I thought. How much could a man in his position siphon out of the country with no one the wiser? He noticed me eyeing the bottle of clear liquor in the cabinet behind him.

"It's a little early for grappa, or I'd offer you some," he said.

I grimaced. "You actually drink that stuff? I'd use it for cleaning battery terminals!"

"Ach, ja, it is an 'acquired taste'. Keeps me from drinking too much!"

"Any news about the Med?" As usual, he greeted my question with a sardonic grin.

"The good news, you already know. The whole truth might demoralize you."

"Call me a glutton for punishment."

He s******ed. "Masochism is in the psychological profile for U-boatmen."

"Just a little strategic analysis, Herr Oberst. It wouldn't hurt to know."

"Ullmann, your problem is that you think too much. Your life would be easier if you could just leave politics to the politicians, and strategy to those with egg on their hats."

"We're losing, aren't we?"

"Don't you believe in the great secret weapons the Führer promised us?"

"We need more than weapons, Herr Oberst. In the long run it all comes down to logistics."

Brandt paused, took a breath, then gave me his "insider" look. "Do you have a Swiss bank account yet?" I shook my head.

He continued, "There are branches in Lugano, just two hours away. You don't even need an appointment. Just bring your cash. Presto, finito."

Presto, Finito. That could have been our flotilla's motto.

"You wanted to see me about a mission, Herr Oberst?"

"Ach, the mission... This time I'm just the Mittelsmann," he said, taking a packet from his desk drawer.

I interrupted him. "You do know that U-77's in drydock till early March?"

"Of course I know that," he snapped. "If we require a U-boat before then, we'll find another one. You have a rendezvous tomorrow. That's all I've been told." Clearly he resented being left out of the loop.

He placed the documents from the packet before me, one by one. "New identity papers. Train tickets. A map of Lago di Como." Then a thick envelope. "Cash, for new clothes and expenses."

"What's wrong with what I have on?" My civvies were clean and well-fitting, as far as I was concerned.

Brandt shook his head. "You'll need to look like a rich Italian. Buy off the rack, though, not tailor-made. Carry a suitcase, not a duffle. And shave the beard."

Then, a thin sealed envelope. "This contains your sign and countersign. Open it now and memorize it."

He got up and looked out his window. I opened the envelope and read the lines. They were in Italian.

"Memorized?"

"Jawohl."

"Eat the paper."

I suspected Brandt enjoyed making people do this. At least the paper was very thin, probably designed to be eaten.

"Finished?"

"Mm-hmm..."

He returned to his desk. "You're booked at the Villa d'Este in Cernobbio under the name Heinz Oster. Take your meals only in the Villa's restaurant. Your contact will find you. Send me your receipts afterward. Alles klar?"

I asked, "Is there any chance that my performance on this, whatever it is -- could it help my career at all?"

"You want to get away from the front," said Brandt. "I understand. But consider that you might not be very useful to us commanding a desk. Of course, you could bring it up with your contact." He let out a cynical laugh.

[Weisia]

"Finished?"

"Mm-hmm..."


:har:

[Schöneboom]

I made my way downtown to the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II, Milano's "Temple to the God of Shopping", as Brandt put it. He wasn't exaggerating. It was even grander in scale than the Galeries Lafayette in Paris. I stood in the very center, at the intersection of the double arcade, and stared up at the gigantic glass dome. Perfect splendour. Ja, klar, no matter what that blowhard Mussolini claimed, the Roman Empire wasn't coming back. But the Italians still knew how to do some things better than anyone.

Whilst trying on various outfits at a posh men's boutique, I reflected on my peculiar relationship with the Abwehr. It couldn't be called blackmail, not in any explicit sense. No question, though, they had the leverage. And if incriminating evidence could be made to disappear, could it not also reappear, should I ever cease to be useful? For the most part, the Abwehr operated silently, invisibly, like a thermal layer shielding my father and me from the Gestapo and SD. Of course, one couldn't make a lot of racket, even with such "protection".

This was no way to live. One day I would either have to surface -- or suffocate.

I settled on a blue Zegna double-breasted suit of ultrafine wool which, according to the salesman, had been soaked in the water of the Italian Alps for extra softness. This was without question my biggest sartorial transformation since the day I first put on a Kriegsmarine uniform. Now I knew why my original appearance had raised eyebrows; I must have looked like a fisherman who had wandered into the wrong store. But in my new suit, combined with the sleek Ferragamo shoes supplied by Oberst Brandt, I could've passed for a prince.

What sort of prince? With the beard, Machiavelli's, definitely. Too bad I'd have to shave it.

The dapper salesman tried to talk me into a lilac and silver ascot, but I had to draw the line somewhere. Instead I selected two silk neckties, one foulard and one striped, to go with my two shirts. As the salesman measured me for alterations, I became convinced that he was the sort of man Il Duce would not have approved of. Not that he did anything improper. But the effort of acting masculine every day must have worn him out. His true nature had to emerge, in his meticulous way of touching the fabric, plucking stray threads; the lilt in his voice; his eyes, which twinkled like a girl's.

Then he realized I was looking. He smiled nervously. Abject fear. I knew the feeling well. There was nothing I could say, of course. Silent running. He then finished measuring and pinning my trouser hems as if neither of us had noticed anything.

A disturbing thought occurred to me: I had not seen a man like him anywhere in Germany for years. No one asked where they all went.

I wondered about this poor fellow. Maybe he had a "thermal layer" protecting him, too -- perhaps some local bigwig who attended Mass every Sunday with his family. Pretending, always pretending. Every ship of state sailed on a river of hypocrisy. Was it not always so?

With a hint of desperation in his voice, the salesman promised me the alterations would be done in two hours. Enough time to shave, check out of my hotel and have lunch. Molto bene.

On my way out of the Galleria, I stopped at a tiny shop specializing in coffee equipment. There I found a pair of second-hand Bialetti moka pots -- the same type Kptlt. Becker had used for our breakfast just before his death. Vito, the stocky, balding proprietor, explained that due to the wartime restriction on the use of aluminium, Bialetti pots were rare and highly prized. I bought both; one for my father, the other for myself.

But to find fresh, high quality coffee -- that would be the hard part. "Oh, Signore, we used to get great coffee from Ethiopia," said Vito wistfully. "But since the war with Britain, allorrraa..." He turned his palms upward in that universal gesture of exasperation. As usual, you had to know the right people.

[Schöneboom]

Later that afternoon, properly clad in my new suit and overcoat, I boarded a northbound train at Milano Centrale. From this point on, if anyone asked, I was Heinz Oster, en route to Como on business. For the silk trade, certo. In my first-class carriage I was safe from the jealous stares of less fortunate civilians. To blend in better, I read the Corriere della Sera.

If one took the news at face value, one might think that victory was just around the corner. For the Axis, that is. As with German propaganda, the smart reader had to make adjustments for the inaccuracies; for ex., the reverse of the friendly/enemy loss figures was often closer to the truth. In Tunisia, of course the German-Italian Panzer Army was "smashing" the Allies and "driving them into the sea". On any given day, that might even have been true. But the logistics... somehow they always left that part out.

Likewise, at the Don River northwest of Stalingrad, the Italian 8th Army was "valiantly holding the line". Naturally, what else would they be doing? Having seen Italian armor, I felt sorry for those poor Schweine facing the Red Army. In the snow. The crude map showing the order of battle told me more than the vague, optimistic fluff of the article. I wanted to believe we were winning, especially against the Communists. They said the Russians had been "fought to a standstill". But where was the actual front line?

The stories closer to home were more indicative of our true situation, if only indirectly. Napoli, the key supply port for our North African forces, had been bombed heavily by B-24s. The Amis weren't wasting time. Good thing we didn't take U77 there after all.

There was at least one triumph that could be reported in detail: our recent takeover of Vichy France! The Italians generously gave us credit for seizing the port of Toulon. Alas, the treacherous French scuttled their fleet. Over a week later, three of their cruisers were still on fire. The Italians would get most of the scrap metal, but the fuel in those ships would have been more useful -- the Regia Marina was nearly immobile for lack of fuel. Allora, logistics again.

Glancing at the stolid faces around me, I imagined it was only a matter of time. Someday they'll turn on us, too. With all their colonial gains slipping away, how much more could they take? If they switched sides, it would put us in an awkward spot, to say the least!

I wondered what the Abwehr had in mind for me. With all this expensive cloak & dagger, it had to be something bigger than, say, taking saboteurs to Algeria. I had heard idle fantasies of rescuing our captured U-boat aces in Canada, but surely they weren't that crazy! And why me, of all people? Unless they wanted someone expendable. I could see Brandt saying, "Jawohl, I know just the man."

Perhaps there was a contingency plan to smuggle Mussolini out of Italy in case he couldn't trust his own people. I almost laughed out loud. After all the things we'd said about him on our boat! That would be too ironic! And where could we take the ex-Duce for a comfortable life in exile? Maybe Franco could give him a villa on Majorca.

I got off the train at Stazione Como San Giovanni. From there it was an easy walk down to the marina, where I caught a ferryboat named Volta, one of the venerable paddle-wheel steamers that plied the Lario. Despite the chilly weather, the lake was breathtaking, with the snow-capped Pre-Alps to the north -- no wonder it had been a summer retreat for Roman emperors. Things changed very slowly here. The splendid villas dotting the hillsides looked as if they dated back to the Renaissance.

Soon I alighted in Cernobbio and walked to the Villa d'Este, which stood at the lake's edge, surrounded by an enormous garden. The word "Villa" hardly conveyed its actual grandeur -- "Palazzo" would have been more fitting. Unlike my hotel in Milano, which catered mainly to traveling businessmen, the Villa d'Este was meant for the "owning class" -- the sort of people I rarely saw except at a distance. Here my suit and accessories were just adequate, so that no one would question my presence or mistake me for one of the staff.

Upon seeing my suite, lavishly decorated with sumptuous fabrics, antique furniture and paintings, with a balcony overlooking the lake, I felt out of place. No one I knew, even among my superiors who had endured and accomplished much more than I had, would expect to find himself here. The people who stayed here were always untouched by war. They owned the country. They probably owned Mussolini as well.

I gazed out at the placid blue lake and pondered. What if the Abwehr intend to lure me from the Kriegsmarine to become a full-time secret agent? The notion staggered me.

But what if it were true? I might live longer. Perhaps long enough to meet Veronika again.

[timmy41]

yay keep writing :D

[Schöneboom]

Grazie mille, timmy41 -- but I think this is where I should take a break for now. I need to devote my time to the "professional" writing that might become my livelihood one day. However, there is a connection between the two...

As you may have guessed, I have big plans for Kptlt. Ullmann. My girlfriend and I are both screenwriters, and she is also an independent film producer. My Peter Ullmann series posted here ("Der Spanier", "Breakfast At Lampedusa", and "Close Call") has inspired her to develop a film project with an Italian co-producer, set in 1943 prior to the fall of Mussolini, with a U-boat skipper as one of the main characters. The Das Boot interior set still exists at Bavaria Film Studios, so that could help us a lot!

As it turns out, I've become the project's historical advisor re U-boats in the Med. Nicht schlecht! Let's just hope the funding comes through! :arrgh!:

Vielen Dank, Alle!
Wayne

[frau kaleun]

As much as I'll miss the regular additions to the story... that ^^ is awesome! :yeah:

[timmy41]

As much as I'll miss the regular additions to the story... that ^^ is awesome! :yeah:
this

if you can make a career of it, many more could enjoy your stories!

[Pebble Monkey]

I've really enjoyed reading this, I really hope professional writing works for you. Good luck with the funding for the movie! :yeah:

[Jimbuna]

Grazie mille, timmy41 -- but I think this is where I should take a break for now. I need to devote my time to the "professional" writing that might become my livelihood one day. However, there is a connection between the two...

As you may have guessed, I have big plans for Kptlt. Ullmann. My girlfriend and I are both screenwriters, and she is also an independent film producer. My Peter Ullmann series posted here ("Der Spanier", "Breakfast At Lampedusa", and "Close Call") has inspired her to develop a film project with an Italian co-producer, set in 1943 prior to the fall of Mussolini, with a U-boat skipper as one of the main characters. The Das Boot interior set still exists at Bavaria Film Studios, so that could help us a lot!

As it turns out, I've become the project's historical advisor re U-boats in the Med. Nicht schlecht! Let's just hope the funding comes through! :arrgh!:

Vielen Dank, Alle!
Wayne

Good luck with that http://www.psionguild.org/forums/images/smilies/wolfsmilies/thumbsup.gif

[Schöneboom]

Funny thing, I was prowling IMDB.com to find a German actor who could play a U-boat skipper, and Ken Duken seemed to me the right type. Then I learned he's already playing Werner Hartenstein in "The Sinking of the Laconia"! :DL

This article about that film contains pix you may not have seen yet:

http://www.abendblatt.de/vermischtes/article1284456/Der-vergessene-Held.html

Interesting: it states their budget was 12 million euros. For this type of film, that's phenomenal! Such a deal!

[Snestorm]

I will miss reading these installations but, am super happy over your good news.

Good luck, to go along with your superior skills.
Thanks for sharing your talents with us.