[STORIES] Missing Name Dabbles in Literature

[Missing Name]

MISSING NAME'S STORY BOX

(YOU KNOW, THE THREAD WHERE THAT GUY WHO COULDN'T THINK OF A WITTY NAME WRITES TALES OF THE SEA)

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Story 1: Blind Luck and Misfortune. A sad, sad story. It starts on this page.


Story 2: Here There Be Whales. A short, short story. It starts on page 2.

* * *

BLIND LUCK AND MISFORTUNE

(Based upon my last career.)

March 20, 1942. A VIIB in the North Mid-Atlantic.

U-127 was a mess. Everything was waterlogged and contents of various drawers were scattered on the deck. A sailor fell out of his bunk and tried to move forward, before he gave up and emptied his stomach of muesli into the bilge. The chief mechanic paid him no mind, focusing only on making his way to the captain. He reached the entrance to the control room. He had to shout to be heard above the wind, waves, rain and diesels.

<<THE PORT DIESEL IS VIBRATING BADLY! WE NEED TO SHUT IT DOWN IMMEDIATELY! THE STRAIN ON IT IS TOO MUCH!>>

Kptlt. Schueren put down - rather, dropped - the grease pen and it rolled off the chart table.

<<CUT IT! WE'LL DIVE SO YOU CAN LOOK AT IT!>>

<<SIR!>> The mechanic turned and was promptly drenched by a torrent of frigid water from the conning tower. At the same time, the boat lurched heavily, throwing anything not secured tightly to go flying.

<<ALL HANDS! DIVE TO SIXTY METRES! MOVE IT IF YOU WANT TO GET OUT OF THE STORM!>> the captain yelled. The watch crew jumped through the hatch and landed in a sodden pile at the foot of the ladder. Elsewhere, the Lords jumped to action, shutting off multitudes of valves. <<TAKE IT EASY, WE DON'T WANT TO ROLL AS WE GO UNDER!>> Already, the sound of the diesels had lessened - the port engine had been shut down. Shortly after, the roar stopped completely as the starboard was also cut. The captain frowned as he watched the depth meter creep past fifteen metres.

<<She's handling a little bit odd - turn the pumps to full and get all extra water out of the bilge.>>

<<Aye.>>

<<And ease off on the dive planes. We're going too fast.>>

The sounds of the storm gradually diminished until they were a dull roar, hardly louder than the steady hum of the motors. Shueren pored over his charts before finally setting the grease pen down again and sighing exasperatedly.

<<Those idiots sent us on a wild goose chase. We should have met the convoy by now.>>

<<We might have passed it in the storm. We could hardly see the front of the boat.>> The IWO crossed his arms and stared at the map dejectedly. <<And the storm makes it hard to hear anything.>>

<<Ach. We can't keep up this nonsense or we're not going to have the fuel to get home. And then there's the port engine.>>

<<The storm must have jolted the foundations loose.>>

<<We need a damn miracle if we want to sink anything.>>

* * *

March 20, 1942. An ex-passenger steamer in the North Mid-Atlantic.

"We need a damn miracle if we want to make it across."

"A real Christ on water miracle." Master Simon of the SS Trumpeter attempted to drink some of his coffee, but another massive wave rocked the boat and he missed.

Convoy HXR 11 was a collection of fifteen cargo ships and one tanker heading from Halifax to Wales. There used to be eighteen ships in formation. MV Forest Agatha had developed engine troubles a hundred miles back and had to break off. And yesterday, SS Tunis failed to report in. No doubt the weather had shifted the old collier's cargo of iron ore and she swamped. Or at least, that's what Simon hoped. There had been no explosion or distress call. If it was a U-boat attack, the escorts hadn't noticed it.

The Trumpeter was by no means a large ship. Only 2300 tons empty, the former passenger ship was now a cargo ship. The cabins had been stripped to make more room for war materiel - this time, crates marked "TOP SECRET - DO NOT OPEN." The Army needed these mystery boxes and they were not an explosion hazard. That was good enough for Simon and he signed off on the manifest where it said "CLASSIFIED." It might be a wild ride, but the ship had seen its fair share of heavy weather and pulled through with minimal damage. "Stronger built than a battleship," the chief engineer often said. Despite this, this was still the strongest storm the captain had ever seen. There was indeed cause for alarm.

"We can't even see the bow." The navigator peered through the tiny clear spot made by the spinning window.

"Think of it as a shield, Joe. If we can't see where the hell we're going, how can Jerry?"

* * *

end of part 1.

[VONHARRIS]

Good read.
Looking foward to reading more.

[MantiBrutalis]

Now this is a work of a proper English speaker. Love it.

[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.

[TwoGamers]

Great Job!

[Jimbuna]

A good read

[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.>>

[Missing Name]

March 22, 1942. Shortly after midnight.

<<We could be in the middle of the convoy, for all we know.>>

There was a general sort of confusion on the tower of U-127. Two hours had passed since initial contact. While the sounds and smells of multiple ships continued to surround the boat, the storm muddled the direction of the exact sources. Attempts to contact other hunters in the region turned up nothing - Kptlt. Schueler and his men were the only ones tracking the convoy for the moment. And with the batteries in a nearly exhausted state, diving to get a definite fix was unthinkable.

<<Well, we know they're in the Atlantic somewhere.>> No one acknowledged Seaman Bernhard's brilliant logic. The gloom made everyone somewhat lethargic, even in such a time of high alert.

Below, the captain's rage was slowly coming up to a full rolling boil again. He continued to curse the weather, the boat that was slowly falling to pieces every day, the last of the cocoa that fell into the bilge earlier, the whole war. At this point, the chart simply had "KONVOI IST IM OZEAN???" scribbled on it, along with some other rather unmentionable things.

* * *

0114.

A miracle came in the form of a bolt of lightning, illuminating the ocean for a fraction of a second. But it was enough.

<<Ship sighted, full side silhouette, almost dead ahead! Close range! Schnitzel, call it less than 500 meters!>>

The 1WO squinted with his not lightning-blinded eye. Yes - barely visible! Single funnel, single masts towards fore and aft. He ran it through his mind, not coming up with an immediate match. Too generic. 2000 tons? 4000? 10000? Another wave blocked the view. He panicked as he tried to reacquire the target.

<<Herr Kaleun! Now or never! We won't have it in visual for much longer! The eels are all contact forward? Slow run?>>

<<Yes! Give me the solution!>>

More mind scrambling. Guesstimates, prayers, curses.

<<Point blank, range five-zero-zero! Prepare all four bow tubes, spread from two degrees port to seven starboard! Delay between shots, one second! Depth, six meters! Fire when ready!>>

The tubes had already been flooded upon the news of a possible target. It wasn't standard operating procedure, but none of the officers were complaining. Less than two minutes after the enemy was sighted, four levers were pulled, one second apart each.

* * *

0117.

The cook on board the Trumpeter heard a weird noise, not the wind nor the waves. A high-pitched whine, quickly getting louder.

[Luno]

Ah, don't leave us hanging like that!

[Missing Name]

Master Simon suddenly found himself awake on the deck, a dull throbbing sensation surrounding his head. All sound seemed to drain from the cabin until the only noise he could register was a ringing in his ears. Funny, he'd never noticed that before. Perhaps he shouldn't have played with so many firecrackers as a kid.

Slowly, the world came into focus and there was a banging sound near his head. Where was he? This wasn't the Nantucket cottage. Why was the floor moving? It's as if he was on a ship or something.

Oh. Realization dawned on him. He sat up, head spinning. The banging at the door was the radioman, going by the frantic yelling.

"CAP! CAP! WAKE UP! WE'VE BEEN HIT! CAP! No, he's not answering! He might be injured! CAP!"

"Get a fire axe, see if he's alright!"

Simon tried to speak, but he didn't recognize any words. What the hell was wrong with him? He lay down again because he was feeling quite dizzy by now. When the frantic crew finally opened the door, the master had already succumbed to his injury. After all, there's not much to be done when the back of one's skull is shattered against a bulkhead.

* * *

<<We got her! I see her back breaking!>> A cheer came from below, loud enough to be heard above the storm. <<The Black Wolf strikes again!>>

There was a slight glow of flames from the wrecked ship. It was enough to see the target - much smaller and closer than originally thought. The torpedo must have just reached the end of its safety run before hitting. It might have also explained why there was only one strike.

<<Full speed ahead, rudder full port! Get ready to run for it, the escorts will be snooping soon!>> The boat accelerated and began to turn west.

* * *

MV Bobwell's lookout called it in to the escorts. The Trumpeter had been maybe 600 meters forward and port of the big collier. The churning ocean was illuminated to the tiniest degree, which was actually making his vision worse. As he watched, the strained deck gave way. The after section tore off of the twisted steamer and sank within seconds, while the forward began to settle much more slowly. The boiler exploded, throwing up a giant column of water.

There was something else though ahead of him. A crate? No, then it would be going with the wind, not against it. Was it...?

"U-booooaaaaaaat! Dead ahead and closing! Rudder hard to port!"

* * *

The waves parted again... and suddenly there was the huge bow of a merchant meeting them head on.

<<WHERE THE HELL DID THAT COME FROM? AHEAD FLANK! RUDDER HARD STARBOARD! MOVE IT! ALL HANDS BELOW! READY DAMAGE CONTROL!>> The two ships continued to close the distance to each other rapidly. As the 1WO watched in horror, the enemy began to turn right at them. Was he trying to ram? <<BRACE!>>

It didn't do any good. The collier's reinforced bow struck just forward of the deck gun, knocking it off, tearing open the pressure hull while rolling the boat over. The entire boat was dragged under, water pouring in both the open conning tower hatch and the new one that had been installed just seconds before. Kptlt. Schueler struck his forehead hard on the periscope and died instantly. Then the massive propellers struck the hull, ripping the aft off the boat apart, leaving it hanging by a few strands of steel.

U-127 took its last dive, spiraling like a demented maple seed. If only the rest of the crew had gone as easily as their captain...

* * *

The hit had disintegrated the engine room of the Trumpeter, taking eight in an instant. Elsewhere on the ship, the master and the second navigator had been thrown about like eggs in a coffee can. Two fell overboard and were lost, while two more drowned after the aft dragged them down. Taking a gigantic risk, the master of the damaged collier maneuvered alongside the fore section of the stricken steamer and pulled the remainder off of the sloping deck.

The crew of the Bobwell grabbed blankets, coffee and sandwiches for the survivors. It would be another three mouths to feed for the remainder of the journey. They were forced to break off from the convoy due to damage to the propellers, but made it to Wales with no further mishap.

All in all, sixty men were lost in less than five minutes, without fanfare. Such is life in war.

* * *

Soooooooo in case you were wondering, no, my last career didn't end well. No vampire vision + storm = terrible hunting conditions. We struck a Passenger/Cargo, with the intent of then returning home due to low fuel and an SH3C-created engine malfunction. Very shortly after though, we were struck by a merchant zigzagging in formation that had gone unnoticed. All lost.

[Luno]

Uhhhh...

[MantiBrutalis]

Ouch. I have been rammed a number of times, but it never cost me my boat. Usually it's just a gentle caress, the last time it happened without any damage...

If merchants in GWX actively tried to ram you if close enough - that would be brilliant...

[LemonA]

Originally Posted by Missing Name

March 21, 1942.

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..."

A bit cliched and stereotyped - not all members of the german highlevell military ranks were R. Wagner fans. It's hard to imagine that least popular parts of the or the whole "Reingold" opera was taken along on military operations ;)

[Missing Name]

Originally Posted by LemonA

A bit cliched and stereotyped - not all members of the german highlevell military ranks were R. Wagner fans. It's hard to imagine that least popular parts of the or the whole "Reingold" opera was taken along on military operations

That part of the opera was playing on the radio while I was writing the story Gotta love public radio.

The epilogue to this sad, sad story will be coming soon.

[Missing Name]

Epilogue.

* * *

16 May, 2013. The North Mid-Atlantic

The researchers found it while researching the North Atlantic garbage patch. At first, they weren't sure if it was a trick of the eye or not. But there it was, solid as could be: the rusted forward half of a ship, floating among the bottles, bags and dead fish. Of course a boarding party was sent.

Dr. Mancuso was first to set foot on the surprisingly sturdy deck. The captain of the USS Gyre was next, and he immediately walked over to the former midship section.

"Holy ****, something took this off with some force." He gave a low whistle as he walked along the rough divide. "See how it's all twisted on this side? Looks like an explosion to me."

The doctor looked over incredulously, raising her eyebrow. "You telling me this is some kinda submarine war relic from dubya-dubya two or something like that? Sir. That was seventy years ago. No way something like this could stay afloat for that long through storms and waves. Look at the shape it's in."

"...yeah, that would be silly. But how do you explain the machine gun mounted on the rail there? Last I checked, people don't really do that these days."

The waterproof chest in the cockpit revealed a preserved log-book: SS Trumpeter, 2300 tons, American register, hauling an unidentified confidential cargo. The last entry was dated 21 March, 1942. There was some sort of grey abomination stuck to the bulkhead with a skeletonized fish head sticking out of it.

Risking the rusted floors, Manucso ventured further below. Rust was overtaking the interior as well. One large room - mess hall? cargo bay? - had a jumble of steel from the deck supports above, as well as a mangled skeleton barely visible in the rubble. Another skeleton was found in the captain's cabin, skull in pieces.

One of the assistant researchers risked exploring the flooded hold, which was filled with crates. The wood was in poor shape and nonexistent in places, but most of the cargo itself had been wrapped in some sort of protective plastic. A (surprisingly light) pack was lifted to the deck.

"So this is the mystery cargo." The naval officer tapped it with his foot. "Well, let's see what it is." With that, he set to work with his knife.

The contents were well preserved. Some sort of dry, light, crumbly, spongy material.

"What the hell is this? Dirt?"

Dr Mancuso played with another chunk, looking around the rusted steel hulk in disbelief. No way. No f in way.

"It's... it's cork."

END