[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!