U-51
Type VIIB
2-Flotilla, Wilhelmshaven
Kptlt Kurt Dennert, Commander
Our five day trip to Vigo and the resupply ship Bessel proved uneventful; no sightings of any craft approaching either by sea or air as we ran ESE towards the Spanish coast. Our diesels, thankfully, had taken no damage from our most recent encounter with the enemy, and I asked as much from them as I dared. That this was always slightly more than the LI could bear without casting a bearded grimace in my direction on occasion went without saying.
We had no radio to relay news of our impending arrival, but whatever surprise the Bessel's master and crew felt at our sudden appearance in their neutral haven that fine May morning soon gave way to an orderly determination to see us as well fitted out as possible for the return leg of our patrol. And the long spring day we spent by her side also proved a tonic for U-51's crew; it might not have been shore leave in Wilhelmshaven, but it was a very welcome respite nonetheless. The weather there remained fair and calm, allowing everyone on board to take his turn at a leisurely moment or two in the sun as those on duty worked to ready the boat for what we hoped would be a direct passage home.
It wasn't long after she'd reported our position and status that a reply began working its way through the usual channels and in due time was handed off to me by the Bessel's master. We would, indeed, return immediately to Wilhelmshaven for the completion of whatever repairs could not be sufficiently handled at Vigo; targets of opportunity encountered en route could be dealt with at my discretion, depending on the condition of our boat and whatever rearmament the Bessel could provide us for the journey.
The weather remained clear and calm long after we'd lost sight of our temporary shelter and pointed our bow first northwest and then due north toward the still distant waters between Rockall Banks and the British Isles. Our only contact before reaching them turned out to be another u-boat, a Type VIIC running due east across our path, making for the busy sea-lanes south of Ireland. Her bridge watch and their commander waved and yelled and signalled their greetings and good wishes; we offered them the same in return. From there it was another long stretch of empty sea and sky until we sighted a lone Granville-type freighter plowing due west between Rockall and the Faroes.
It only took a moment to make my decision. Night was falling, and the weather had grown increasingly rough as we traveled northward; we were out of range of RAF Coastal Command; and it wasn't as though our tubes were completely empty. The wolf might be scarred, she might be tired, and she might be looking forward to a well-deserved nap in a dry, warm den - but she still had some teeth left. And if by chance the freighter turned out to be armed and dangerous... well, we could always outrun her and disappear once more into the darkness whence we came.
As it turned out, there was no need for that. One hit below her funnel was all it took in the heavy seas of the night's approaching storm; we were still shadowing her and lining ourselves up for a possible second attack when an explosion tore through her midsection, sending her funnel up and then crashing down over the side into the deep. More explosions shook the air and illuminated her fate as the sea took her. We scanned the surface from a distance for men or lifeboats amid the debris, and saw none. Her end had come too fast and too hard.
After that we made our way through ten more days and nights of high seas and pounding rain before sighting, at long last, the familiar lights of Wilhelmshaven. The sky was still pouring buckets down our backs as we pulled slowly into our pen and came to a welcome and long-awaited stop.
Home at last, and even in those dark wet hours just after midnight, it never looked so good.
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