My boat's crusing just north of Scotland, at 128x, when the watch crew calls out "Aircraft Spotted!". Now normally I don't press the situation, and just order a "crash dive" just as soon as I verify I've got enough water underneath me. Not today. I'm feeling lucky (well, since I'm the Lucky One, duh
), and I've got this brand-spankin' new Petty Officer with a Flak Gun Rating. I order him up on deck, and send everybody else below. All ahead full, and rudder hard to port.
I climb out topside, and watch as my flak gunner opens up... tracers flying towards not one, but two Mosquitos (or so I assume, 'cause they're twin-engined, and look a lot like 'em). They start to dive, as my flak gunner reloads, and continues to fire away as they continue their dive.
At this point, I'm thinkin' this Mos' driver is pretty brave. Can't say I'd be all that comfy watching those tracers fly up towards me as I'm making my run on target... he seems to have no problem, though. Flak keeps firing away, as I get to watch that bomb detact from the bottom of the fuselage. It arcs downwards... and splashes not too far away, on the port side.
As the crew starts calling out damage reports, it occurs to me that I should've turned to starboard. This little nugget of goodness comes into being just as I watch the bomb drop from the other Mos'. It arcs down even closer... and darn near hits my boat. The crew starts calling out even more damage reports, but more importantly, overlaid is the sound of a dying man groaning/screaming/whatever in his death throes.
Yep, that fancy schmancy flak gunner was riddled with shrapnel from the bomb.
So now my boat's all bent up, my flak gunner's dead, and I haven't even gotten past Scotland. This is in January of '40, keep in mind... things like this aren't supposed to happen. I dive, and flee the scene.
The repair's are going to take days. Not hours, days. Nothing's destroyed, however, so it's not like I can crawl back into port, dive into a big ol' beer, and lament my worries away. Nope. Stick the dead guy somewhere in the boat where he won't smell too badly (fat chance), start cruising towards the patrol area again, and repair the ship in the mean time, hoping there's no destroyer around to make my day even worse.
Lesson #1 learned: You see aircraft, you dive. January of '40 or '44, you just dive.
Lesson #2 learned: Don't waste ratings on flak gunners. Crazies will just get themselves killed.
