VonApist
04-27-18, 04:25 AM
June 1943 – Grid BB Outside Halifax
Kaleun Reimar Petersen lowered his binoculars from his eyes and rubbed them hard. It was his third week on board of his VIIC boat criss-crossing the Atlantic in search of pray. He has left the well known hunting grounds of the Western Approaches with a tally of 3 merchants and 17,000 tons. But air activity in the area was intense and he decided to move towards the Atlantic Gap (or, whatever was left of it since nowdays the Allies had long range Liberators patrolling the skies) and try his luck in the American coast if the situation (and his fuel reserve) allowed.
The relentless sea spray had made his skin burn, crusts of salt on his eyebrows, as he had been on the bridge for the past 3 hours scanning the horizon.
The sea was choppy with gusts of wind coming from the North, sending a chill down his spine. Despite his oilskin, water managed to trickle down his neck (wrapped by a now totally wet towel) making him shiver. He tried to open a pack of his Turkish cigarettes but the pack was all wet and the paper disintegrated as he fumbled with his frozen, rigid fingers. He was about to curse when Bootsman Heinz Konig shouted at the top of his lungs: "Smoke, bearing 040 lots of it sir!"
Reinar Petersen grabbed the binoculars hanging from his neck, a personal gift from Doenitz, his gaze following the index finger of his comrade who was pointing at the exact direction.
Adrenaline rushed into his body, making every neuron alert. The hunt was on. And what a hunt. This was not a single merchant. As the seconds passed, through his binoculars smoke filled the horizon and a forest of masts became visible.
"This is not smoke, Heinz, this is a freaking city coming our way" Petersen said with a grin on his face.
"Sound the alarm, take her down to periscope depth" the kaleun ordered as the rest of the watch crew slid down to the belly of the uboat. Petersen, touched his right earlobe for good luck, a superstition copied from his late father that came as an instinct. He followed the crew below last, securing the hatch behind him as the gurgle of water filling the water tanks escorted him to the Control Room.
Kaleun Reimar Petersen lowered his binoculars from his eyes and rubbed them hard. It was his third week on board of his VIIC boat criss-crossing the Atlantic in search of pray. He has left the well known hunting grounds of the Western Approaches with a tally of 3 merchants and 17,000 tons. But air activity in the area was intense and he decided to move towards the Atlantic Gap (or, whatever was left of it since nowdays the Allies had long range Liberators patrolling the skies) and try his luck in the American coast if the situation (and his fuel reserve) allowed.
The relentless sea spray had made his skin burn, crusts of salt on his eyebrows, as he had been on the bridge for the past 3 hours scanning the horizon.
The sea was choppy with gusts of wind coming from the North, sending a chill down his spine. Despite his oilskin, water managed to trickle down his neck (wrapped by a now totally wet towel) making him shiver. He tried to open a pack of his Turkish cigarettes but the pack was all wet and the paper disintegrated as he fumbled with his frozen, rigid fingers. He was about to curse when Bootsman Heinz Konig shouted at the top of his lungs: "Smoke, bearing 040 lots of it sir!"
Reinar Petersen grabbed the binoculars hanging from his neck, a personal gift from Doenitz, his gaze following the index finger of his comrade who was pointing at the exact direction.
Adrenaline rushed into his body, making every neuron alert. The hunt was on. And what a hunt. This was not a single merchant. As the seconds passed, through his binoculars smoke filled the horizon and a forest of masts became visible.
"This is not smoke, Heinz, this is a freaking city coming our way" Petersen said with a grin on his face.
"Sound the alarm, take her down to periscope depth" the kaleun ordered as the rest of the watch crew slid down to the belly of the uboat. Petersen, touched his right earlobe for good luck, a superstition copied from his late father that came as an instinct. He followed the crew below last, securing the hatch behind him as the gurgle of water filling the water tanks escorted him to the Control Room.