[Bosje]

November, 1943


Noise, smoke and shouting are all around me but they are not the result of violence and death, not this time. The train has come to a stop, the civilian baggage handler opens the compartment door for me and moves out of the way, bowing and saluting in all the wrong ways. I step onto the platform and immediately squint against the bright sun. This is what autumn looks like over here? I could get used to this place. The handler follows me onto the platform with my luggage, still bowing. I do not usually wear my full uniform with rank and decorations but it has its advantages and it saves a lot of trouble on a long journey like this. On the far end of the platform, a navy officer is looking at me and after a while approaches. He, too, salutes. Correctly. 'Duke Beckman, Sir?'
'Ah, no, well I'm Beckman but I'm not a duke.'
'Oh, sorry Sir, it's just that we figured...'
'Never mind, long story.'
'All right, Sir. I am Rudi Papendorf, your first watch officer. I'm here to pick you up. Welcome to France, Sir. Had a good journey?'
'Thank you, Leutnant. The journey was not good, no. Train got bombed by the Amis. Twice.'
'Ah, so our comrades in the Luftwaffe were...'
He swallows the rest of his sentence and glares casually at a man in a leather coat and black hat who walked round the corner into hearing range.
'...We have a flotilla staff car just over there, Sir. I'll take you to the boat.'


He is a talkative man, my new 1.WO.
'The men are keen to meet you, Sir. They are excited to be putting out under one of the Arctic veterans. We heard about....'
He keeps blabbing while the car finds its way to the U-pens and my mind wanders off. One of the Arctic veterans. The images visit me again, they are still not gone after a week in hospital and a month in the sanatorium. I recovered from the severe concussion although the doctors say I have to expect chronic migraines. But I have yet to recover fully from the mental impact of that last patrol in the Arctic wastes. The convoy, the eternal daylight, the pain in my head, Ringelmann, the hedgehogs. God, the hedgehogs. We went back at the convoy because I ordered to. We even succeeded in sinking two more ships. Payback for Ringelmann. And then they got their own revenge. Three escorts taking turns. One maintaining contact, a second one nailing us down from behind and launching the forward firing bombs on us, then two depth charge runs in close succession. And then the same all over again. We survived but only just. Volkmar was just standing there, looking up with tears in his eyes, crying 'Not fair! Not fair!' Hans was swearing like a dockworker while trying to drive the boat. Anton and Albert were with their boys in the forward and aft compartments, trying to control the flooding and keep the boat alive. And I was desperately trying to think of a way to outsmart them, to avoid those bombs. I failed. The tommies dropped their stuff on us so vigorously that they quickly ran out of ammunition and then they suddenly steamed off, perhaps to hunt another boat. It lasted only an hour, but that hour wrecked my U-735, it wrecked the crew and it got the better of me. We returned to Bergen and I was carried off the boat by two sailors, headed straight for the hospital. U-735 was nothing more than a good-looking scrapheap, Hans was promoted and issued his own command, the rest of the boys went to various postings and I was considered for retirement. After hospital I was sent to a sanatorium in Bavaria. An old and bitter man at the age of twenty-nine, a month among other senile, sullen and worn out warriors with hollow eyes and pale faces, hardly any of them over thirty.


But the fresh mountain air, the sun, good food and a lot of rest can work miracles. I stopped feeling like a drink all the time, I traded cigarettes back for an occasional well-stuffed pipe and after a few weeks I was born again. The Bergen patrols still haunt me sometimes but I suppose that's only normal for a combat veteran. Otherwise, I'm fine. And here I am, on my way to a new command. They wanted me for training duties but I requested a front boat posting. Being an ace, I got it. A new boat, freshly slipped into the Med, only one casualty from making it through the Gibraltar Straits, the commander whose job I will take. They say the Med is terrible but it can't be all that bad. For starters, the climate is wonderful.
The first officer stops his monologue as the car enters a heavily guarded harbor. 'Ah here we are, Sir. Toulon U-boat base.'