[STORIES] Missing Name Dabbles in Literature

[Missing Name]

MISSING NAME'S STORY BOX

(YOU KNOW, THE THREAD WHERE THAT GUY WHO COULDN'T THINK OF A WITTY NAME WRITES TALES OF THE SEA)

TABLE OF CONTENTS


Story 1: Blind Luck and Misfortune. A sad, sad story. It starts on this page.


Story 2: Here There Be Whales. A short, short story. It starts on page 2.

* * *

BLIND LUCK AND MISFORTUNE

(Based upon my last career.)

March 20, 1942. A VIIB in the North Mid-Atlantic.

U-127 was a mess. Everything was waterlogged and contents of various drawers were scattered on the deck. A sailor fell out of his bunk and tried to move forward, before he gave up and emptied his stomach of muesli into the bilge. The chief mechanic paid him no mind, focusing only on making his way to the captain. He reached the entrance to the control room. He had to shout to be heard above the wind, waves, rain and diesels.

<<THE PORT DIESEL IS VIBRATING BADLY! WE NEED TO SHUT IT DOWN IMMEDIATELY! THE STRAIN ON IT IS TOO MUCH!>>

Kptlt. Schueren put down - rather, dropped - the grease pen and it rolled off the chart table.

<<CUT IT! WE'LL DIVE SO YOU CAN LOOK AT IT!>>

<<SIR!>> The mechanic turned and was promptly drenched by a torrent of frigid water from the conning tower. At the same time, the boat lurched heavily, throwing anything not secured tightly to go flying.

<<ALL HANDS! DIVE TO SIXTY METRES! MOVE IT IF YOU WANT TO GET OUT OF THE STORM!>> the captain yelled. The watch crew jumped through the hatch and landed in a sodden pile at the foot of the ladder. Elsewhere, the Lords jumped to action, shutting off multitudes of valves. <<TAKE IT EASY, WE DON'T WANT TO ROLL AS WE GO UNDER!>> Already, the sound of the diesels had lessened - the port engine had been shut down. Shortly after, the roar stopped completely as the starboard was also cut. The captain frowned as he watched the depth meter creep past fifteen metres.

<<She's handling a little bit odd - turn the pumps to full and get all extra water out of the bilge.>>

<<Aye.>>

<<And ease off on the dive planes. We're going too fast.>>

The sounds of the storm gradually diminished until they were a dull roar, hardly louder than the steady hum of the motors. Shueren pored over his charts before finally setting the grease pen down again and sighing exasperatedly.

<<Those idiots sent us on a wild goose chase. We should have met the convoy by now.>>

<<We might have passed it in the storm. We could hardly see the front of the boat.>> The IWO crossed his arms and stared at the map dejectedly. <<And the storm makes it hard to hear anything.>>

<<Ach. We can't keep up this nonsense or we're not going to have the fuel to get home. And then there's the port engine.>>

<<The storm must have jolted the foundations loose.>>

<<We need a damn miracle if we want to sink anything.>>

* * *


March 20, 1942. An ex-passenger steamer in the North Mid-Atlantic.

"We need a damn miracle if we want to make it across."

"A real Christ on water miracle." Master Simon of the SS Trumpeter attempted to drink some of his coffee, but another massive wave rocked the boat and he missed.

Convoy HXR 11 was a collection of fifteen cargo ships and one tanker heading from Halifax to Wales. There used to be eighteen ships in formation. MV Forest Agatha had developed engine troubles a hundred miles back and had to break off. And yesterday, SS Tunis failed to report in. No doubt the weather had shifted the old collier's cargo of iron ore and she swamped. Or at least, that's what Simon hoped. There had been no explosion or distress call. If it was a U-boat attack, the escorts hadn't noticed it.

The Trumpeter was by no means a large ship. Only 2300 tons empty, the former passenger ship was now a cargo ship. The cabins had been stripped to make more room for war materiel - this time, crates marked "TOP SECRET - DO NOT OPEN." The Army needed these mystery boxes and they were not an explosion hazard. That was good enough for Simon and he signed off on the manifest where it said "CLASSIFIED." It might be a wild ride, but the ship had seen its fair share of heavy weather and pulled through with minimal damage. "Stronger built than a battleship," the chief engineer often said. Despite this, this was still the strongest storm the captain had ever seen. There was indeed cause for alarm.

"We can't even see the bow." The navigator peered through the tiny clear spot made by the spinning window.

"Think of it as a shield, Joe. If we can't see where the hell we're going, how can Jerry?"

* * *


end of part 1.

[VONHARRIS]

Good read.
Looking foward to reading more.

[MantiBrutalis]

Now this is a work of a proper English speaker. Love it.

[Missing Name]

March 21, 1942.

<<Nothing on this damn boat works!>> Kptlt. Schueler punched the navigator's table. <<Next thing you know, the rudders will snap off and we'll have to paddle home! They said that this would be the boat's last patrol and it would be retired to the 24th. That was two patrols ago! Where are the new boats they said we would get by the mid-1941?>>

<<Calm down, Herr Kaleun.>> The 1Funker passed a mug of cocoa to the captain and headed forward again with his own mug. <<It should be no big fix, just need some wire and some epoxy. Then we'll have it buzzing again.>>

"It" was the boat's long-range radio. A short caused a small electrical fire not too long ago, destroying a couple vital connections. Until it was fixed, there would be no contact with home. At least Schueler had a managed to surface one last time in the night and announce his intentions to return to port. The old equipment on the boat was really showing its age this patrol. The port diesel had been labeled no-go by the mechanics - rust and strain had caused an unrepairable loose foundation.

<<Another dud patrol, with a dud boat to go along with it!>> Another bang on the table for emphasis.

<<If this storm were to calm down, then we could easily get our bearings. As it is, we have no clue how much we're off course.>> The navigator took a sip of his cocoa (from his "Augsburg" mug, of course) and calmly reflected on the situation, seemingly unaware of the captain raging next to him. <<It's been five days, I doubt it will continue much into six.>>

<<At least we can hold depth this time, sir.>> The bow planesman turned back to his wheel. <<That incident in December was interesting indeed.>> Schueler couldn't argue with this one. A stuck valve had dropped them from thirty meters to one hundred in less than a minute. Just another sign that this boat was in serious need of a massive overhaul, at the very least.

At that point, the speakers slowly faded in as the Funkers adjusted the gramophone.

"...Wotan, Gemahl, erwache!
Der Wonne seligen Saal bewachen mir Tür und Tor: Mannes Ehre, ewige Macht, ragen zu endlosem Ruhm..."

And promptly cut out again.

<<Oh schnitzel, don't tell me the little gram is dead too!>>

<<No, Herr Kaleun! I need to concentrate here.>> The 2Funker was yelling from his table, but did not take his gaze away from the instruments. His eyes were wide in shock. <<Shut that blower down, it's too loud!>>

The captain, rage forgotten, cautiously stepped forward through the sudden silence and leaned over the sonarman.

<<It might be something. Sixty degrees port, bow. Take a listen?>>

There was nothing out of the ordinary. The dull chaotic roar of the storm above, the hum of the motors and the rhythmic swish of the propellers.

<<I don't hear it.>>

<<I swear, I thought I heard something.>>

Schueler handed the headphones over again and looked back through the hatch. The watch officer and navigator were standing in the control room and looking in expectantly.

<<Port and starboard motors: set fifty revolutions per minute. Five-oh.>> He turned back to the hydrophone gear. The Funker was making small adjustments. After an agonizing thirty seconds, he whispered while turning his head.

<<I hear it, but not well. Not constant.>> A pause. <<Can't be just one ship. Too irregular. And covering five degrees.>> He handed the set over.

With the screws turning only enough to maintain depth, the water was less cluttered. The storm was still making a racket, but what was that there? A different sort of roar, fading in and out, barely audible above the churning water. A jumbled mess of combustion, machinery, cavitation... well, they might be distinguishable if his ears were better.

<<With the weather the way it is, I estimate this convoy is no more than ten, fifteen kilometres away. Unless we're listening to a fluke in sound propagation and it's being carried thirty.>> The 2Funker was extremely familiar with the equipment on this boat.

A small smile began to creep onto Schueler's grim face. He savored the sound for another minute, then took the headphones off. Patted the sonarman on the shoulder.

<<Finally, two days late. Well done. Well done indeed. Let's follow it, find its heading, and send them a present. Or five.>>

* * *


part 3 will be ready sometime in the near past.

[TwoGamers]

Great Job!:up:

[Jimbuna]

A good read :cool:

[Missing Name]

March 21, 1942. Late evening.

"What the hell is this. If you're trying to pull a prank on me, just remember, the fish need to eat too." Despite the completely deadpan delivery of the line, the Master Simon was barely holding back a smile.

"Well, sir, you asked for something that wouldn't spill easily in the swells. Nothing rich, as it would tickle your delicate stomach in the rough seas. And of course, a good source of vitamins. So I made you 'Special a la Richmond.' It's everything you asked for."

"That doesn't explain the cocktail umbrella."

"To give you a little mind vacation. After all, there is a war going on, ya know."

The master poked at the nondescript, off-white log which the cook had ceremoniously deposited on the bridge. It was almost like clay. Sure enough, another giant wave rocked the steamer. The... the thing stayed stuck to the plate.

"Try it, you'll like it."

He did. The texture was reminiscent of uncooked dough left outside on a picnic bench. The flavor was of lemon, salt and raw flour. And there was something crunchy in the center. What the hell was it? Oh, a dried sardine with the tip of its nose chewed off. It stared at the master, unaware of the howling wind outside.

"Just kidding, here's some meatloaf and spuds." The cook placed another plate on the chart table. Thankfully, it looked edible. And it was indeed tasty. The master scarfed it down and turned his attention back to the "Special a la Richmond." He picked it up. Casually stuck it to the frame above the radio.

"I shall keep it and cherish it forever."

"Yeah, I don't think it'll be spoiling anytime soon."

"Seriously, what is it? Tastes like crap. My wife could make something better."

"It's a toy clay I would whip up for the kids, so they can mold it into animals 'n' critters 'n' things. Really not supposed to eat it, but it's nothing poisonous, don't worry yourself over it." The cook walked - stumbled - back to the ladder leading belowdeck, taking the empty plates. "Lemme know if you need more coffee," he yelled as he descended.

"Will do." Simon sighed heavily, rubbed his eyes and stared back out into the gloom outside. "Back to reality, I guess." And what a sad reality it was.

MV Hamilton had gone under at around noon. The timbers stored on her deck had become unlashed, unbalancing the ship. She rolled and vanished under the waves in under a minute. HMCS La Croix had managed to pick up two men out of her crew of ten, but no more. The storm claimed the rest.

The remainder of the convoy continued on, limited to a crawl as the wind continued. If anything, the storm had gotten worse. At least it worked in their favor - u-boats would have a hard time tracking anything, let alone attack.

The master looked over at the dough loaf stuck to the charthouse bulkhead, barely visible in the limited light, and smiled. The cocktail umbrella poking out of its back really did lighten up the area a bit.

* * *


<<Did you smell that? Combustion.>>

<<No. Are you sure it wasn't us?>>

<<It was blowing from the north.>> The seaman stared ahead into the murk. The 1WO followed suit. <<Not from our exhaust.>> The wind brought another whiff - the unmistakable stench of multiple ships burning oil. And they could hear the roar of the machinery for a moment. The watch officer yelled down the hatch immediately.

<<Herr Kaleun, please come to the tower. We've found them.>>

[Missing Name]

March 22, 1942. Shortly after midnight.

<<We could be in the middle of the convoy, for all we know.>>

There was a general sort of confusion on the tower of U-127. Two hours had passed since initial contact. While the sounds and smells of multiple ships continued to surround the boat, the storm muddled the direction of the exact sources. Attempts to contact other hunters in the region turned up nothing - Kptlt. Schueler and his men were the only ones tracking the convoy for the moment. And with the batteries in a nearly exhausted state, diving to get a definite fix was unthinkable.

<<Well, we know they're in the Atlantic somewhere.>> No one acknowledged Seaman Bernhard's brilliant logic. The gloom made everyone somewhat lethargic, even in such a time of high alert.

Below, the captain's rage was slowly coming up to a full rolling boil again. He continued to curse the weather, the boat that was slowly falling to pieces every day, the last of the cocoa that fell into the bilge earlier, the whole war. At this point, the chart simply had "KONVOI IST IM OZEAN???" scribbled on it, along with some other rather unmentionable things.

* * *


0114.

A miracle came in the form of a bolt of lightning, illuminating the ocean for a fraction of a second. But it was enough.

<<Ship sighted, full side silhouette, almost dead ahead! Close range! Schnitzel, call it less than 500 meters!>>

The 1WO squinted with his not lightning-blinded eye. Yes - barely visible! Single funnel, single masts towards fore and aft. He ran it through his mind, not coming up with an immediate match. Too generic. 2000 tons? 4000? 10000? Another wave blocked the view. He panicked as he tried to reacquire the target.

<<Herr Kaleun! Now or never! We won't have it in visual for much longer! The eels are all contact forward? Slow run?>>

<<Yes! Give me the solution!>>

More mind scrambling. Guesstimates, prayers, curses.

<<Point blank, range five-zero-zero! Prepare all four bow tubes, spread from two degrees port to seven starboard! Delay between shots, one second! Depth, six meters! Fire when ready!>>

The tubes had already been flooded upon the news of a possible target. It wasn't standard operating procedure, but none of the officers were complaining. Less than two minutes after the enemy was sighted, four levers were pulled, one second apart each.

* * *


0117.

The cook on board the Trumpeter heard a weird noise, not the wind nor the waves. A high-pitched whine, quickly getting louder.

[Luno]

Ah, don't leave us hanging like that! :wah:

[Missing Name]

Master Simon suddenly found himself awake on the deck, a dull throbbing sensation surrounding his head. All sound seemed to drain from the cabin until the only noise he could register was a ringing in his ears. Funny, he'd never noticed that before. Perhaps he shouldn't have played with so many firecrackers as a kid.

Slowly, the world came into focus and there was a banging sound near his head. Where was he? This wasn't the Nantucket cottage. Why was the floor moving? It's as if he was on a ship or something.

Oh. Realization dawned on him. He sat up, head spinning. The banging at the door was the radioman, going by the frantic yelling.

"CAP! CAP! WAKE UP! WE'VE BEEN HIT! CAP! No, he's not answering! He might be injured! CAP!"

"Get a fire axe, see if he's alright!"

Simon tried to speak, but he didn't recognize any words. What the hell was wrong with him? He lay down again because he was feeling quite dizzy by now. When the frantic crew finally opened the door, the master had already succumbed to his injury. After all, there's not much to be done when the back of one's skull is shattered against a bulkhead.

* * *


<<We got her! I see her back breaking!>> A cheer came from below, loud enough to be heard above the storm. <<The Black Wolf strikes again!>>

There was a slight glow of flames from the wrecked ship. It was enough to see the target - much smaller and closer than originally thought. The torpedo must have just reached the end of its safety run before hitting. It might have also explained why there was only one strike.

<<Full speed ahead, rudder full port! Get ready to run for it, the escorts will be snooping soon!>> The boat accelerated and began to turn west.

* * *


MV Bobwell's lookout called it in to the escorts. The Trumpeter had been maybe 600 meters forward and port of the big collier. The churning ocean was illuminated to the tiniest degree, which was actually making his vision worse. As he watched, the strained deck gave way. The after section tore off of the twisted steamer and sank within seconds, while the forward began to settle much more slowly. The boiler exploded, throwing up a giant column of water.

There was something else though ahead of him. A crate? No, then it would be going with the wind, not against it. Was it...?

"U-booooaaaaaaat! Dead ahead and closing! Rudder hard to port!"

* * *


The waves parted again... and suddenly there was the huge bow of a merchant meeting them head on.

<<WHERE THE HELL DID THAT COME FROM? AHEAD FLANK! RUDDER HARD STARBOARD! MOVE IT! ALL HANDS BELOW! READY DAMAGE CONTROL!>> The two ships continued to close the distance to each other rapidly. As the 1WO watched in horror, the enemy began to turn right at them. Was he trying to ram? <<BRACE!>>

It didn't do any good. The collier's reinforced bow struck just forward of the deck gun, knocking it off, tearing open the pressure hull while rolling the boat over. The entire boat was dragged under, water pouring in both the open conning tower hatch and the new one that had been installed just seconds before. Kptlt. Schueler struck his forehead hard on the periscope and died instantly. Then the massive propellers struck the hull, ripping the aft off the boat apart, leaving it hanging by a few strands of steel.

U-127 took its last dive, spiraling like a demented maple seed. If only the rest of the crew had gone as easily as their captain...

* * *


The hit had disintegrated the engine room of the Trumpeter, taking eight in an instant. Elsewhere on the ship, the master and the second navigator had been thrown about like eggs in a coffee can. Two fell overboard and were lost, while two more drowned after the aft dragged them down. Taking a gigantic risk, the master of the damaged collier maneuvered alongside the fore section of the stricken steamer and pulled the remainder off of the sloping deck.

The crew of the Bobwell grabbed blankets, coffee and sandwiches for the survivors. It would be another three mouths to feed for the remainder of the journey. They were forced to break off from the convoy due to damage to the propellers, but made it to Wales with no further mishap.

All in all, sixty men were lost in less than five minutes, without fanfare. Such is life in war.

* * *

Soooooooo in case you were wondering, no, my last career didn't end well. No vampire vision + storm = terrible hunting conditions. We struck a Passenger/Cargo, with the intent of then returning home due to low fuel and an SH3C-created engine malfunction. Very shortly after though, we were struck by a merchant zigzagging in formation that had gone unnoticed. All lost.

[Luno]

:huh:

Uhhhh...

[MantiBrutalis]

Ouch. I have been rammed a number of times, but it never cost me my boat. Usually it's just a gentle caress, the last time it happened without any damage...

If merchants in GWX actively tried to ram you if close enough - that would be brilliant...

[LemonA]

March 21, 1942.

At that point, the speakers slowly faded in as the Funkers adjusted the gramophone.

"...Wotan, Gemahl, erwache!
Der Wonne seligen Saal bewachen mir Tür und Tor: Mannes Ehre, ewige Macht, ragen zu endlosem Ruhm..."



https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iRjjPxoe3c4


A bit cliched and stereotyped - not all members of the german highlevell military ranks were R. Wagner fans. It's hard to imagine that least popular parts of the or the whole "Reingold" opera was taken along on military operations ;)

[Missing Name]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iRjjPxoe3c4


A bit cliched and stereotyped - not all members of the german highlevell military ranks were R. Wagner fans. It's hard to imagine that least popular parts of the or the whole "Reingold" opera was taken along on military operations ;)

That part of the opera was playing on the radio while I was writing the story :D Gotta love public radio.

The epilogue to this sad, sad story will be coming soon.

[Missing Name]

Epilogue.

* * *


16 May, 2013. The North Mid-Atlantic

The researchers found it while researching the North Atlantic garbage patch. At first, they weren't sure if it was a trick of the eye or not. But there it was, solid as could be: the rusted forward half of a ship, floating among the bottles, bags and dead fish. Of course a boarding party was sent.

Dr. Mancuso was first to set foot on the surprisingly sturdy deck. The captain of the USS Gyre was next, and he immediately walked over to the former midship section.

"Holy ****, something took this off with some force." He gave a low whistle as he walked along the rough divide. "See how it's all twisted on this side? Looks like an explosion to me."

The doctor looked over incredulously, raising her eyebrow. "You telling me this is some kinda submarine war relic from dubya-dubya two or something like that? Sir. That was seventy years ago. No way something like this could stay afloat for that long through storms and waves. Look at the shape it's in."

"...yeah, that would be silly. But how do you explain the machine gun mounted on the rail there? Last I checked, people don't really do that these days."

The waterproof chest in the cockpit revealed a preserved log-book: SS Trumpeter, 2300 tons, American register, hauling an unidentified confidential cargo. The last entry was dated 21 March, 1942. There was some sort of grey abomination stuck to the bulkhead with a skeletonized fish head sticking out of it.

Risking the rusted floors, Manucso ventured further below. Rust was overtaking the interior as well. One large room - mess hall? cargo bay? - had a jumble of steel from the deck supports above, as well as a mangled skeleton barely visible in the rubble. Another skeleton was found in the captain's cabin, skull in pieces.

One of the assistant researchers risked exploring the flooded hold, which was filled with crates. The wood was in poor shape and nonexistent in places, but most of the cargo itself had been wrapped in some sort of protective plastic. A (surprisingly light) pack was lifted to the deck.

"So this is the mystery cargo." The naval officer tapped it with his foot. "Well, let's see what it is." With that, he set to work with his knife.

The contents were well preserved. Some sort of dry, light, crumbly, spongy material.

"What the hell is this? Dirt?"

Dr Mancuso played with another chunk, looking around the rusted steel hulk in disbelief. No way. No f in way.

"It's... it's cork."

END

[VONHARRIS]

Wow , the end was totally unexpected and very very good.:up:

Congatulations on the idea and the writing.:up:

[Jimbuna]

Nice plot and ending http://www.psionguild.org/forums/images/smilies/wolfsmilies/pirate.gif

[Missing Name]

Danke for the support, Kameraden! (Wait, you're telling me that no one else has already written a story about cork?)

I've decided that this will be my generalized story thread. In fact, I've got another super short one on the way, so don't go change the channels! We know we'd all rather listen to that instead of BdU yelling at us. Something about "Brazil," "grossly overdue" and "court martial."

[Luno]

Indeed, your writing style is great! Keep going! Mind if I save these?

[Missing Name]

Here There Be Whales

14 January, 1940. Fifteen kilometres northeast of Helgoland.
A VIIC.

Lt. Herget couldn't stop smiling. After all, the first real patrol in a new boat tends to have that effect on rookie commanders. The navigator was happy that the trip through the canal went without mishap, the cook was happy that there was an extra can of coffee and the Funker had managed to pick up some records. In fact, only one person aboard wasn't smiling, and that had nothing to do with the boat.

<<Tough luck on the girl, son. Ah, there's more out there in the world, cheer up!>> The captain clapped the hapless Lord on the shoulder. <<Besides, the sea should be your one true love!>>

<<But Freida was warm. The sea is cold.>> Seaman Eindracht stared glumly into the fog.

The eins-wo chipped in. <<You say she was warm? She ditched you on the pier! How can you get much colder than that?>> He wiped fog off his binoculars. <<You were too good for her. Damn! It really is cold today.>>

<<Perhaps we should turn the heater on?>> Bernhard pointed at a fixture.

<<Idiot! That's the radio antenna, and it's already on.>> It was enough of a distraction for the moment - all thoughts of love lost were ignored as all on the tower laughed.

<<Say, what kind of marine life do we have around here? I thought I saw something big in the water.>>

<<Do we have whales around here?>> The watch officer looked to the captain for answers, but none came.

<<I grew up on a farm. I don't know much about marine life, let alone whether there are whales around here.>>

<<There's another one! It must have been a whale, it was big.>>

<<It was a mermaid, I tell you. Don't lean over too far, or she'll grab you and pull you under!>>

<<Perhaps you'd like that, actually. A nice girl for you, right there.>>

<<Ha ha ha! Indeed!>>

<<I thought we were done talking about women!>> moaned Eindracht.

<<Hey, I saw one too.>> Bernhard was pointing aft. <<One funny looking whale, that.>>

Suddenly, Herget felt a chill beyond the crisp air. Something didn't seem right. Wasn't this water too shallow for large marine life? He knelt down and shouted down the hatch.

<<Ringholz, give me a depth sounding.>>

<<Yes sir.>> A pause. <<Only eight meters under the keel.>>

<<I don't like this.>> The mood on the tower had changed rather rapidly, although no one was quite sure why.

And then the boat was rocked by a massive explosion. The captain was thrown clear and landed in the water, slipping into blackness. He remembered seeing the boat listing heavily before passing out.

* * *


The phone rang yet again. It was a hospital director from the island.

<<Well, sir, the captain is alive, but in bad shape. Broken spine. I doubt he'll be able to sail again. We've also fished twelve crew out of the sea, various conditions. Five bodies recovered.>>

<<Thank you. Tell me if you find any more.>> BdU Doenitz put the phone receiver down and called his secretary in. <<Damn. It was only a matter of time. Prepare a message, to send to all boats: U-127 sunk sixteen kilometres northeast of Helgoland. Suspected mine strike. Avoid area if possible, use extreme caution if impossible.>>

END

* * *


Again, another bad career. I had forgotten that mines were laid around that area...

Also, could I get a thread name change please? From "[STORY] Blind Luck and Misfortune" to "[STORIES] Missing Name's Story Bin" ? Danke!

Indeed, your writing style is great! Keep going! Mind if I save these? Thanks! And no problem!

[Luno]

Ah! A short one! I had no idea the area was heavily mined. I must have sailed through the area countless times :timeout:

I just started a brand new career in SH4. S-18 class boat, out of Manilla. Literally less than an hour after setting sail, 10 nm from port, Betties screamed over the hills. I had no time to react. Bombs fell all around, and the boat bottomed out - Shortest career I've ever played.

Here's to some better luck next time!

[Hitman]

Thread title updated as per user's request. Keep the good stuff coming Missing Name :rock:

[Bosje]

i like this one
:salute:

[Brag]

Keep writing :D

[Missing Name]

Currently writing a story about this little image here...

http://i.imgur.com/xmlV1KH.jpg

CALM BEFORE THE STORM

August 13, 1939. The Pentland Firth.

A Type VIIB.

<<They appear to be signalling us. Can you make it out?>>

<<Hm?>> Lt. Stolte watched the destroyer's blinking lamp through his binoculars. <<They're signalling in English. Do they realize we're German?>> The message was repeated a few times, allowing the captain's rather shaky grasp of the language to figure out the meaning.

STORM PREDICTED IN AREA STOP ADVISE YOU SEEK SHELTER IMMEDIATELY STOP DO YOU WISH AN ESCORT Q STOP

<<They want us to enter Scapa, apparently.>>

<<Isn't that kind of a big deal? That is their Home Fleet, after all.>>

<<Nonsense. I know the area, I spent a year here back as a young man. Hopefully the Old Corn Inn is still open, they had good fried potatoes...>>

Now the eins-wo was whispering nervously, so the Lords wouldn't hear. <<What about our orders to head to port as soon as possible?
The message said something was happening...>>

<<Oh, it's probably nothing important, yet again. They're inviting us in. How can we refuse their hospitality? Remember, the main induction valve is faulty. I doubt heavy seas would do it much good. Staying in the harbor will protect it, no? We won't make good headway with the diesels constantly choking every time a wave hits us. Signal them back. The lamp is ready? Send... send W-O-U-L-D... B-E... M-U-C-H... A-P-P-R-E-C-I-A-T-E-D... STOP. Do you think they'd board us? I would if I were over there with them.>>

NOW BEHAVE YOURSELVES FRITZ STOP OR IS GUINNESS NOT GOOD ENOUGH FOR YOU Q STOP

<<Bastards. They just can't accept that German beer is better. Perhaps we'll have to show them.>> Everyone on the tower laughed. Shortly afterwards, all were cleaning themselves as well as possible in the fore head. A harbor tug guided them to a pier, noticeably separated from the British fleet. But what did anyone care? Beer and girls awaited on shore, the perfect experience to add on top of a (mostly) successful shakedown cruise. Not even the brief inspection by the harbor master dissuaded anyone. The torpedo tubes were empty except for a single dummy, the magazine was full of Beck's and there was a comically large Kriegsmarine flag ("liberated" from a destroyer by bored crew) installed where the twenty-mil would have normally been. It wasn't like there was a war going on or something like that.

[VONHARRIS]

I am looking forward to reading the next chapter of that story.

"Dock at Scapa Flow" ......:o

[Missing Name]

The officers were all seated at one table, enjoying plates of potatoes and sausage. Stolte returned from the restroom, passing by a Scot trying to outdrink a Bavarian. From across the room, there was a bout of laughter, and captain turned to see the source. A bunch of British sailors crowded around one German who was proudly displaying a metal.

"It's a vound badge, see? 'Bernard Glückspilz - High Honor of Besondergrossedeutschkriegsmarinedingegerate.' I got it avarded to me venn I schut my foot in tze bilge - tzat notch tzere. Und tzat vun - hand stuck im propellor. Und tzat vun tzere..."

One of the Brits turned to another. "Chap is plain plastered, eh, Freddie? I'm surprised he hasn't nicked his hand on that soup can lid he calls a medal."

"Nah, I think he's just an idiot. That glass is full of milk."

A third chipped in. "Where the hell did he learn English? I'll have to kill the bastard who did - my ears hurt!"

The captain smiled and continued to the officers' table. The eins-wo was still visibly nervous.

<<We're not supposed to be here. We're supposed to report home. What if command hears of us? We're under orders not to speak about the boat - what if one of the men gets drunk and starts spouting off specifications on our torpedoes? What if ->>

<<What if you try your potatoes? They're delicious.>> The chief engineer was working on his third plate already. <<I wonder what this flavoring agent is? I can't quite name it.>>

<<It's cinnamon, cumin and ginger. The cook was stationed in India for a stretch.>> Everyone turned around to see the source of mystery voice. A British officer was approaching with a mug of some black liquid. <<He brought the spices back with him and we all love it. Mind if I sit and have a drink with you boys?>>

"By all means, Leftenant." Two can play at perfect bilingual, thought the sub driver. "Your German is excellent for a Brit."

<<I studied at Oxford. And your English is superb as well. No 'vee-ing' or 'tzee-ing.'>> He took another sip from his mug. <<You had a good teacher. Hamburg?>>

"Indeed." Stolte took another sip from his own mug, not mentioning that his speaking abilities were already reaching their limit. "What's that you have there? It doesn't look like beer."

<<This, gentlemen, is why the Americans call us 'Limeys.' Grog. A mix of dark rum, cinnamon, lime juice. Policy is to add water, but I prefer to drink it straight. Keeps the boys in good spirits with good spirits. Try some.>> He offered the drink. It looked interesting, to say the least.

"Ah, the drink I've heard so much... praise for. Chhhakc! I see... it's... delicious?" He did his best to keep a straight face but failed - evidenced by the Englishman's spreading grin. "Of course, this is weak (kicking the eins-wo's shin under the table) but if it's all you have to look forward to on the high seas, all the more power to it." Another swig for emphasis. "Perhaps you can try some of the kirsch the Funker has hidden away in his medical locker." With that, he drained the mug - the taste was already growing on him.

<<Perhaps, Leutnant. If you can walk to the boat, that is. You just chugged my night's one drink. It's ninety-six proof. And you look a lot younger than myself, no offense.>>

* * *


The morning sun was bright. Since when did they turn up the power? The captain's eyes were burning as he looked over the crew standing at attention on the pier. Few were able to keep straight faces.

<<Well, men, it's been a fun night (snickers from the sailors) and we've enjoyed ourselves while behaving, to the delight of the Brits (even more chuckles). But sadly, we have important business to attend to. We have been called home, as you were well aware. Our little pleasure cruise is coming to an end. Now. Make ready to cast off. I am timing you, of course.>> Stolte clicked the stopwatch as everyone scrambled for final preparations, then turned to the two officers on the bridge. <<I take it you're not ever going to tell me what happened last night?>>

<<You didn't blab any state secrets, if that's what you're worried about.>>

<<Or insult anyone, or mention anything about battleships or Admiral von Reuter.>>

<<Well, that's consolation! Please tell me I didn't do something like leave my wallet in the storm or some silly thing like that.>> The captain rubbed his temples.

<<Actually...>>

<<We don't remember if it stormed or not to begin with. It's a bit damp everywhere, but I can't recall any high winds or thunder.>> The engineer shifted uncomfortably. He adjusted his cap, but Stolte didn't miss him massaging his head as well. <<In any case, your wallet is fine.>>

<<In fact, you beat a couple English gentlemen at craps. It's full of pound notes.>>

<<****, I don't even gamble! Remind me to never drink rum again.>> A horn blared nearby and the captain fumbled his watch. It bounced off the wood decking and slipped into the otherwise calm water. All on the tower stared blankly at the ripples for a minute. Finally the captain spoke again.

<<King, Markgraf, Seydlitz, Moltke... and now Zeiss joins the others.>>

END

[Borgneface]

S! Thank you, really great story...I am enjoying this very much!

:Kaleun_Applaud: