[Missing Name]

March 21, 1942.

<<Nothing on this damn boat works!>> Kptlt. Schueler punched the navigator's table. <<Next thing you know, the rudders will snap off and we'll have to paddle home! They said that this would be the boat's last patrol and it would be retired to the 24th. That was two patrols ago! Where are the new boats they said we would get by the mid-1941?>>

<<Calm down, Herr Kaleun.>> The 1Funker passed a mug of cocoa to the captain and headed forward again with his own mug. <<It should be no big fix, just need some wire and some epoxy. Then we'll have it buzzing again.>>

"It" was the boat's long-range radio. A short caused a small electrical fire not too long ago, destroying a couple vital connections. Until it was fixed, there would be no contact with home. At least Schueler had a managed to surface one last time in the night and announce his intentions to return to port. The old equipment on the boat was really showing its age this patrol. The port diesel had been labeled no-go by the mechanics - rust and strain had caused an unrepairable loose foundation.

<<Another dud patrol, with a dud boat to go along with it!>> Another bang on the table for emphasis.

<<If this storm were to calm down, then we could easily get our bearings. As it is, we have no clue how much we're off course.>> The navigator took a sip of his cocoa (from his "Augsburg" mug, of course) and calmly reflected on the situation, seemingly unaware of the captain raging next to him. <<It's been five days, I doubt it will continue much into six.>>

<<At least we can hold depth this time, sir.>> The bow planesman turned back to his wheel. <<That incident in December was interesting indeed.>> Schueler couldn't argue with this one. A stuck valve had dropped them from thirty meters to one hundred in less than a minute. Just another sign that this boat was in serious need of a massive overhaul, at the very least.

At that point, the speakers slowly faded in as the Funkers adjusted the gramophone.

"...Wotan, Gemahl, erwache!
Der Wonne seligen Saal bewachen mir Tür und Tor: Mannes Ehre, ewige Macht, ragen zu endlosem Ruhm..."

And promptly cut out again.

<<Oh schnitzel, don't tell me the little gram is dead too!>>

<<No, Herr Kaleun! I need to concentrate here.>> The 2Funker was yelling from his table, but did not take his gaze away from the instruments. His eyes were wide in shock. <<Shut that blower down, it's too loud!>>

The captain, rage forgotten, cautiously stepped forward through the sudden silence and leaned over the sonarman.

<<It might be something. Sixty degrees port, bow. Take a listen?>>

There was nothing out of the ordinary. The dull chaotic roar of the storm above, the hum of the motors and the rhythmic swish of the propellers.

<<I don't hear it.>>

<<I swear, I thought I heard something.>>

Schueler handed the headphones over again and looked back through the hatch. The watch officer and navigator were standing in the control room and looking in expectantly.

<<Port and starboard motors: set fifty revolutions per minute. Five-oh.>> He turned back to the hydrophone gear. The Funker was making small adjustments. After an agonizing thirty seconds, he whispered while turning his head.

<<I hear it, but not well. Not constant.>> A pause. <<Can't be just one ship. Too irregular. And covering five degrees.>> He handed the set over.

With the screws turning only enough to maintain depth, the water was less cluttered. The storm was still making a racket, but what was that there? A different sort of roar, fading in and out, barely audible above the churning water. A jumbled mess of combustion, machinery, cavitation... well, they might be distinguishable if his ears were better.

<<With the weather the way it is, I estimate this convoy is no more than ten, fifteen kilometres away. Unless we're listening to a fluke in sound propagation and it's being carried thirty.>> The 2Funker was extremely familiar with the equipment on this boat.

A small smile began to creep onto Schueler's grim face. He savored the sound for another minute, then took the headphones off. Patted the sonarman on the shoulder.

<<Finally, two days late. Well done. Well done indeed. Let's follow it, find its heading, and send them a present. Or five.>>

* * *

part 3 will be ready sometime in the near past.