[Schöneboom]

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.