Early-mid '40, I was making the rounding around the Orkneys, heading for the North Atlantic, probably cutting it too close to land though.
Dead flat and calm seas, zero visibility due to heavy fog. Putzing along at about 12 knots. All of a sudden, lookouts are screaming alarms, I pop up to the bridge and there, about 50 meters behind us, was a destroyer, perfectly cutting across our wake. Couldn't find it in the binocs quick enough quick to get a stern shot off, and so I peed a little, and dove. They apparently never saw us.
That's the closest I ever came to getting rammed by a destroyer, and how I learned to run submerged in zero visibility states.
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Luck is a residue of Design.
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