[Missing Name]

March 21, 1942. Late evening.

"What the hell is this. If you're trying to pull a prank on me, just remember, the fish need to eat too." Despite the completely deadpan delivery of the line, the Master Simon was barely holding back a smile.

"Well, sir, you asked for something that wouldn't spill easily in the swells. Nothing rich, as it would tickle your delicate stomach in the rough seas. And of course, a good source of vitamins. So I made you 'Special a la Richmond.' It's everything you asked for."

"That doesn't explain the cocktail umbrella."

"To give you a little mind vacation. After all, there is a war going on, ya know."

The master poked at the nondescript, off-white log which the cook had ceremoniously deposited on the bridge. It was almost like clay. Sure enough, another giant wave rocked the steamer. The... the thing stayed stuck to the plate.

"Try it, you'll like it."

He did. The texture was reminiscent of uncooked dough left outside on a picnic bench. The flavor was of lemon, salt and raw flour. And there was something crunchy in the center. What the hell was it? Oh, a dried sardine with the tip of its nose chewed off. It stared at the master, unaware of the howling wind outside.

"Just kidding, here's some meatloaf and spuds." The cook placed another plate on the chart table. Thankfully, it looked edible. And it was indeed tasty. The master scarfed it down and turned his attention back to the "Special a la Richmond." He picked it up. Casually stuck it to the frame above the radio.

"I shall keep it and cherish it forever."

"Yeah, I don't think it'll be spoiling anytime soon."

"Seriously, what is it? Tastes like crap. My wife could make something better."

"It's a toy clay I would whip up for the kids, so they can mold it into animals 'n' critters 'n' things. Really not supposed to eat it, but it's nothing poisonous, don't worry yourself over it." The cook walked - stumbled - back to the ladder leading belowdeck, taking the empty plates. "Lemme know if you need more coffee," he yelled as he descended.

"Will do." Simon sighed heavily, rubbed his eyes and stared back out into the gloom outside. "Back to reality, I guess." And what a sad reality it was.

MV Hamilton had gone under at around noon. The timbers stored on her deck had become unlashed, unbalancing the ship. She rolled and vanished under the waves in under a minute. HMCS La Croix had managed to pick up two men out of her crew of ten, but no more. The storm claimed the rest.

The remainder of the convoy continued on, limited to a crawl as the wind continued. If anything, the storm had gotten worse. At least it worked in their favor - u-boats would have a hard time tracking anything, let alone attack.

The master looked over at the dough loaf stuck to the charthouse bulkhead, barely visible in the limited light, and smiled. The cocktail umbrella poking out of its back really did lighten up the area a bit.

* * *

<<Did you smell that? Combustion.>>

<<No. Are you sure it wasn't us?>>

<<It was blowing from the north.>> The seaman stared ahead into the murk. The 1WO followed suit. <<Not from our exhaust.>> The wind brought another whiff - the unmistakable stench of multiple ships burning oil. And they could hear the roar of the machinery for a moment. The watch officer yelled down the hatch immediately.

<<Herr Kaleun, please come to the tower. We've found them.>>