U-1164, Jester of St Nazaire

Bosje · 08-28-09, 01:35 PM

April, 1944.

Commander Hans Bremer tried to take deep breaths but he soon ceased his attempts as the influx of cold fresh air made him throw up. The wine had been excellent but two bottles was obviously too much. He looked around for his transportation but then realised that he had no idea how he had arrived at the club 6 hours before. He decided to walk back to his hotel and randomly aimed for one of the streets which St. Nazaire offered to him. A tottered kilometer later he realised he had no idea where he was, nor where he was going, nor where his lodgings actually were. Did he even stay at a hotel at all? Bastard French and their bastard wine! This was unfair, of course, but he was annoyed at his predicament. He threw up in a side alley and that helped. Think, dammit! How did he get here?

Second warpatrol, left port in high spirits after the success of their first patrol. Crossed the bay of Biscay during the night, heading out into the Atlantic. Air attack, alarm! He remembered the failing vents and the boat still being on the surface as the bomber came screaming in. Guns manned, bombs falling, bullets flying, plane going down in flames, boat completely wrecked, guncrew dead, limping back to port, made it. That was it, now he remembered. They went for a drink to celebrate their safe return and to drown the memory of the terrible attack and to toast to their fallen comrades. But he still didn't remember where he should go now. He turned round and tried to find the club again.

He opened the door of the club and stepped back in. He stumbled and fell face first onto a fortunately placed couch, floored by the impact of the hot, thick and moist atmosphere inside. The LI was least inebriated and noticed his captain had returned. The officers carried him over to their table and sat him down on the chair he had vacated shortly before. He mumbled: 'take me to my toat...boat', and then he fell asleep.

By the end of the month, boat and crew were back in shape and they set out again, the commander was in a grim mood this time but he was also bent on sinking some allied shipping.

08-28-09, 01:35 PM	#9
Bosje Seasoned Skipper Join Date: Apr 2008 Posts: 732 Downloads: 89 Uploads: 0	Back again April, 1944. Commander Hans Bremer tried to take deep breaths but he soon ceased his attempts as the influx of cold fresh air made him throw up. The wine had been excellent but two bottles was obviously too much. He looked around for his transportation but then realised that he had no idea how he had arrived at the club 6 hours before. He decided to walk back to his hotel and randomly aimed for one of the streets which St. Nazaire offered to him. A tottered kilometer later he realised he had no idea where he was, nor where he was going, nor where his lodgings actually were. Did he even stay at a hotel at all? Bastard French and their bastard wine! This was unfair, of course, but he was annoyed at his predicament. He threw up in a side alley and that helped. Think, dammit! How did he get here? Second warpatrol, left port in high spirits after the success of their first patrol. Crossed the bay of Biscay during the night, heading out into the Atlantic. Air attack, alarm! He remembered the failing vents and the boat still being on the surface as the bomber came screaming in. Guns manned, bombs falling, bullets flying, plane going down in flames, boat completely wrecked, guncrew dead, limping back to port, made it. That was it, now he remembered. They went for a drink to celebrate their safe return and to drown the memory of the terrible attack and to toast to their fallen comrades. But he still didn't remember where he should go now. He turned round and tried to find the club again. He opened the door of the club and stepped back in. He stumbled and fell face first onto a fortunately placed couch, floored by the impact of the hot, thick and moist atmosphere inside. The LI was least inebriated and noticed his captain had returned. The officers carried him over to their table and sat him down on the chair he had vacated shortly before. He mumbled: 'take me to my toat...boat', and then he fell asleep. By the end of the month, boat and crew were back in shape and they set out again, the commander was in a grim mood this time but he was also bent on sinking some allied shipping. __________________ And when an 800-ton Uboat has you by the tits... you listen!