Tremendous http://www.psionguild.org/forums/ima...s/thumbsup.gif

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/fotogr...Becks_Bier.jpg

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."

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

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.

"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."

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:

[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.

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.

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

Rivetting stuff http://www.psionguild.org/forums/ima...ies/pirate.gif

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..."

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.

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.

:har:

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.

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.

yay keep writing :D

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

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