DASBOOT(THEBOAT)

byLothar-GüntherBuchheim

TranslatedfromtheGermanbyDenverandHelenLindley

TableofContents

THECREWOFTHEBOAT

IBARROYAL

IIDEPARTURE

IIIFRIGGINGAROUND:1

IVFRIGGINGAROUND:2

VFIRSTATTACK

VISTORM

VIICONTACT

VIIISECONDATTACK

IXPROVISIONING

XGIBRALTAR

XIRETURNVOYAGE

THECREWOFTHEBOAT

OFFICERS:Commander (the Old Man—also addressed as Herr Kaleun, the standard

navalabbreviationofhisfulltitle,HerrKapitänleutnant)FirstWatchOfficerSecondWatchOfficerChiefEngineer(theChief)SecondEngineerNarrator—anavalwarcorrespondentPETTYOFFICERSANDSEAMEN(“LORDS”):Ario—dieselstokerBachmann(“Gigolo”)—dieselstokerBehrmann(”NumberOne”)—bosuntheBiblescholar—control-roomassistantBockstiegel—seamanDorian(”theBerliner”)—bosun’smateDufte—seamanDunlop—torpedomanFackler—dieselstokerFranz—chiefmechanicFrenssen—dieselmechanicmateHacker—torpedomechanicHagen—E-stokerHerrmann—soundmanHinrich—radiomanIsenberg(”Tin-earWillie”)—control-roommate

Johann—chiefmechanicKatter(“Cookie”)—cookKleinschmidt—dieselmechanicmateKriechbaum—navigatorLittleBenjamin-helmsmanMarkus—helmsmanPilgrim—E-mateRademacher—E-mateSablonski—dieselstokerSchwalle—seamanTurbo—control-roomassistantUllmann—ensignWichmann—bosun’smateZeitler—bosun’smateZörner—E-stokerandfourteenothersunnamed.Thenormalcrewforaboatofthisclasswas50;

on thisvoyage,however, theSecondEngineerwasa supernumerary,onboardfordutytraining.

Thisbook isanovelbutnotaworkof fiction.Theauthorwitnessedall theevents reported in it; they are the sum of his experiences aboard U-boats.Nevertheless,thedescriptionofthecharacterswhotakepartarenotportraitsofrealpersonslivingordead.Theoperations that formthesubjectof thebooktookplaceprimarily in the

fallandwinterof1941.Atthattimetheturningpointwasbecomingapparentinallthetheatersofthewar.BeforeMoscow,thetroopsoftheWehrmacht—onlyafewweeksafterthebattleofencirclementatKiev—werebroughttoastandstillforthefirsttime.InNorthAfricatheBritishtroopswentontheoffensive.TheUnitedStateswasprovidingsuppliesfortheSovietUnionanditselfbecame—immediatelyaftertheJapaneseattackonPearlHarbor—anationatwar.Ofthe40,000GermanU-boatmeninWorldWarII,30,000didnotreturn.

IBARROYAL

Fromtheofficers’billetintheHotelMajestictotheBarRoyalthecoastroaddescribesasingleextendedcurvethreemileslong.Themoonisnotyetup,butyoucanmakeoutapaleribbonofaroad.TheCommanderhastheacceleratorallthewaydown,asifthiswerearace.

Suddenlyhehastobrake.Thetiresscream.Brake,release,brakeagainfast.TheOldManhandlesitwell,andwithoutskidding,theheavycarcomestoastopinfront of awildly gesticulating figure. Blue uniform. Petty officer’s cap.Whatinsigniaonhissleeve?—U-boatman!He’s standing just outside the beamof our headlight,waving his arms.His

faceindarkness.TheCommanderisabouttostartforwardslowlywhenthemanbeginstobeatwiththepalmsofhishandsontheradiatorhood,bellowing:

Youbright-eyedlittlefawn,I'llgetyou,I'llbreakyourlittleheartintwo.

Apause,morefiercedrummingonthehoodandmorebellowing.TheCommander’sfaceisgrim.He’sabouttoexplode.Butno,heshiftsinto

reverse.Thecarleaps,andInearlycrackmyheadonthewindshield.Lowgear.Slalomcurve.Screechingtires.Secondgear…“ThatwasourNumberOne!”theCommanderinformsme.“Tightasatick.”TheChiefEngineer,sittingbehindus,swearsunintelligibly.TheCommanderhasbarelygottenupspeedwhenhehastobrakeagain.But

hehas a littlemorewarning this time,because the swaying line caught inourheadlightsisstillsomewayahead.Atleasttenmenstraightacrosstheroad,allsailorsinshoreuniform.Fliesopen,cocksout,asinglecascadeofurine.TheOldMansoundsthehorn.Thelinepartsandwedrivebetweentworows

ofmenpissingatattention.“Wecallthatthewateringcart—they’reallfromourboat.”

BehindustheChiefgrowls.“The rest are in thewhorehouse,” the Commander says. “They’ll be doing

rush business there tonight. You knowMerkel is moving out in the morningtoo.”Foralmostamilenotasoultobeseen.Theninourheadlightsadoublefileof

militarypolice.“Let’shopenoneofourboysaremissinginthemorning,”saysthevoicefrom

behindus.“Whenthey’redrunktheyliketogoaftertheshorepatrols—”“Don’t even recognize their own Commander,” the Old Man mutters to

himself.“That’sgoingtoofar.”He’sdrivingslowernow.“I’mnotfeelingsofreshmyself,”hesayshalfoverhisshoulder.“Toomuch

ceremonyforoneday.Firstthefuneralthismorning—forthatbosunwhocaughtit in the air attack at Châteauneuf. And in the middle of the funeral anotherattack—terrificfireworks.Itisn’tdecent—particularlyduringafuneral!Ourflakbroughtdownthreebombers.”“Andwhatelse?”IasktheOldMan.“Nothingtoday.Butthatexecutionyesterdayturnedmystomach.Desertion.

Clear case.Adiesel engineer.Nineteen years old.Let’s not talk about it.AndthenintheafternoonthathogslaughterattheMajestic.Probablymeanttobeabanquet.Puddingbroth,orwhateverthestuff’scalled—nobodylikedit.”TheOldManstopsinfrontoftheétablissement;onthegardenwallasignin

lettersthreefeethighproclaimsBARROYAL.It’sacreationinconcrete,shapedlikeaship,between theshore roadandasecondary roadcoming inatasharpangle from the pine forest. Straight across the front—on the ship’s bridge—apicturewindowlikeagreatsuperstructure.Monique’s the entertainer in theBarRoyal.Agirl fromAlsacewhoknows

onlyscrapsofGerman.Blackhair,darkeyes,alltemperamentandtits.BesidesMonique, theattractionsare threewaitresseswithpeekabooblouses

anda three-manband,nervousand insipidexcept for thedrummer, amulatto,whoseemstoenjoywhathe’sdoing.TheTodtOrganizationhadrequisitionedtheplaceandhaditrepainted.Now

it’samixtureofFindeSiècleandGermanHouseofArt.ThemuralabovetheorchestraplatformrepresentsthefivesensesortheGraces.FiveGraces—threeGraces? The U-boat Commander-in-Chief took the place away from the Todt

Organization on the grounds that “U-boat soldiers need relaxation”; “U-boatofficers can’t spend all their time inwhorehouses”; “We need amore refinedatmosphereforourmen.”Themore refinedatmosphereconsistsof tatteredcarpets, splitleatherchairs,

whitelatticeworkadornedwithartificialgrapevinesonthewalls,redshadesonthewalllights,andfadedredsilkcurtainsoverthewindows.TheCommanderlooksaroundtheroomwithagrin,staresmagisteriallyatthe

groupsatvarioustables,hischinpulledbackandhisforeheadfurrowed.Hethenmethodicallystraightensachair, letshimselfdropheavily into it,andstretcheshislegsoutinfront.ThewaitressClementineimmediatelycomestrippinguptohim,breastsbobbing;theOldManordersbeerallround.Beforeitarrives,thedoorburstsopenandagroupoffivemencrowdsin,all

lieutenant-commanders by the stripes on their sleeves—andbehind them threelieutenants and a second lieutenant. Three of the lieutenant-commanders arewearingwhitecaps:U-boatofficers.AgainstthelightIrecognizeFlossmann.Anunpleasant,irascibleindividual,

square-built andblond,who recently boasted that duringhis last patrol, in thecourseofanartilleryattackonanunescortedvessel,thefirstthinghehaddonewas to open fire on the lifeboats with a machine gun, “to make our positionclear…”The other two are Kupsch and Stackmann, the inseparables, who were

headinghomeon leavewhen theygotstuck inParisandsince thenhavebeenoverflowingwithwhorehousetalk.TheOldMangrowls,“AnotherhourandthewholeU-Forcewillbehere.I’ve

beenwonderingforalongtimewhytheTommieshaven’tsmashedthisshopinoneoftheirdashingcommandoraids,alongwiththeCommander-in-ChiefinhislittlecastleatKernével.Can’tunderstandwhythatshophasn’tbeentaken—soclose to thewaterand rightnext toall thatmessaroundFortLouis.As forussittinghere,theycouldtakeuswithalassoiftheywantedto.This’dbeagoodnightforit.”TheOldManhasneitherthethin,thoroughbredfacenorthewiryfigureofthe

picture-book U-boat heroes. He looks rather ordinary, like the captain of aHamburg—Americaliner,andhemovesheavily.Thebridgeofhisnoseisnarrowinthemiddle,bendstotheleft,andbroadens

out.Hisbrightblueeyesarehiddenunderbrowsthatarepermanentlyfrowning

from so much concentrated staring at the sea. Usually he keeps his eyes sonearlyclosed thatyouonly see two slits and, at theirouter corners, aburstofwrinkles.Hislowerlipisfull,hischinstronglymodeled;byearlyafternoonitiscoveredwithreddishstubble.Therough,strongfeaturesgivehisfacealookofgravity.Anyonenotknowinghisagewouldputhiminhisforties;he’sreallytenyearsyounger.Butgiven theaverageageofcommanders,he isalreadyanoldmanatthirty.The Commander is not given to grandiloquence. In his official reports, his

accomplishments sound like child’s play. It’s hard to get anything out of him.Usually we understand each other by an exchange of fragmentary phrases,tangentialspeech.Amerehintofirony,aslightpursingofthelips,andIknowwhathereallymeans.WhenhepraisesU-boatHeadquarters,lookingcrosswisepastme,it’sclearwhathemeanstoconvey.Ourlastnightashore.Beneaththebabbleoftalkalwaysthenagginganxiety:

Willitbeallright?Willwemakeit?To calm myself I reason it out: the Old Man—a first-class commander.

Unflappable. No slavedriver. No crazy, bloodthirsty daredevil. Reliable. Hasservedonsailingships.Hasalwayscomethrough.Twohundredthousandtons—destroyedawholeharborfulofships.Alwaysgotaway,evenoutoftheworstjamsMyheavy sweaterwill be useful ifweheadnorth. I’ve toldSimonenot to

comewithme to the harbor. It would only cause trouble. TheGestapo idiotswatch us like lynxes. Envious pigs. The Dönitz Volunteer Corps—they can’ttouchus.Nonotionwherewearereallyheaded.Mid-Atlanticprobably.NotmanyU-

boatsout there.Averybadmonth.Strengtheneddefenses.TheTommieshavelearned a lot of new tricks. The tide has turned. The convoys are excellentlyguarded thesedays.Prien,Schepke,Kretschmer,Endrassallattackedconvoys.And they all got it at almost the same time—in March. For Schepke it wasespeciallynasty.Jammedbetweentheperiscopehousingandthetower’sarmorplatewhen the destroyer rammed his bombed-out tub. The aces! There aren’tmanyleft.Endrass’snerveswereshot.ButtheOldManisstillintact,amodelofperfectcalm.Introverted.Doesn’tdestroyhimselfwithbooze.Seemscompletelyrelaxedashesitstherelostinthought.I have to leave for aminute. In the toilet I hear two officers of thewatch

standingbesidemeattheyellow-stainedtilewall.“Havetogounloadit.”

“Don’tstickitinthewrongplace.You’rereallypissed.”Whenthefirstoneisalreadyhalfwaythroughthedoor, theotherroarsafter

him,“Whileyou’reatit,stuffingreetingsandsalutationsfrommetoo!”Men fromMerkel’s boat.Drunk, otherwise theywouldn’t be spouting filth

likethat.Ireturntothetable.OurChiefEngineerisanglingforhisglass.Anentirely

differentmanfromtheskipper.LookslikeaSpaniard,withhisblackeyesandpointedblackbeard,aportraitbyElGreco.Nervoustype.ButknowstheropesfromAtoZ.Twenty-sevenyearsold.TheCommander’srighthand.HasalwayssailedwiththeOldMan.Theyunderstandeachotherwithoutmuchtalk.“Where’sourSecondWatchOfficer?”theOldManwantstoknow.“Onboard.Stillonduty,buthe’llprobablyturnup.”“Somebodyhastodothework.AndtheFirstWatchOfficer?”“Inthecathouse!”saystheChief,grinning.“Him in the cathouse? Don’t make me laugh! Probably writing his will—

that’sonemanwhoalwayshaseverythinginorder.”About the apprentice engineer,who is going to be joining the crewon this

voyage and is supposed to take over the Chief’s job afterward, the OldMandoesn’taskatall.SotherewillbesixofusintheOfficers’Mess,alotofmenatonesmalltable.“What’s become of Thomsen?” asks the Chief. “Hewouldn’t just stand us

up.”Philipp Thomsen, a commander of theUF and very recent recipient of the

Ritterkreuz,hadreportedinduringtheafternoon.Seateddeepinaleatherchair,elbows propped up, hands folded as though in prayer, his eyes staring grimlyoverthemattheoppositewall.“…wewerethenharriedforthreequartersofanhourbydepthbombs.Rightaftertheexplosion,atadepthofabouttwohundredfeet, we took six to eight canisters fairly close to the boat. Flat pattern. Oneespeciallywellplaced,abouttheheightofourgunandovertwohundredfeettooneside,hardtobemoreprecise.Theothersallfelleighthundredtoathousandyardsaway.Thenanhour later,another series.Thatwas in theevening,about23.00.Atfirstwestaydownandthenmakeasilentrun,risingslowly.Afterthatwe surface behind the convoy. Next morning a cruiser makes a dash in ourdirection.Wave force three, andmoderate wind. Rain squalls. Rather cloudy.Veryfavorableforsurfaceattacks.Wesubmergeandpositionourselvesfor the

attack.Fire.Wideofthemark.Thenagain.Destroyerproceedingatslowspeed.Makeatrywiththesterntube.Thatworks.Wethenrunbehindtheconvoyuntilwereceiveorderstoturnabout.ThesecondconvoyannouncedbyZetschke.Wemaintaincontactandsupplyrunningreports.Toward18.00wecatchupwithit.Weathergood,seatwotothree.Fairlycloudy.”Thomsenpaused.“Veryodd;alloursuccesseswereondayswhenoneofthe

crewwashavingabirthday.Reallyextraordinary.Thefirsttimeitwasthedieselstoker’s. The second, a radioman’s. The unescorted ship went down on thecook’sbirthday,andthedestroyeronthetorpedotechnician’s.Crazy,isn’tit?”Thomsen’sboathadfourpennantsonitshalf-raisedperiscopewhenitranin

earlythismorningwiththefloodtide.Threewhiteonesformerchantvesselsandaredoneforthedestroyer.Thomsen’shoarsevoicerangoutlikethebarkofadogovertheoil-covered,

brackishwater.“Bothenginestwicestop!”The boat still had headway enough to glide noiselessly up to the pier. Its

outlinesweresharp;outofthesticky,oilyscumofthestinkingharborwateritrose like a tall vasewith amuch too tightlybunchedbouquet in it.Notmuchcolor—abunchofdriedflowers.Blossomslikepalepatchesamidthedarkmossof beards. As they approached, the patches became emaciated white faces.Chalkyskin.Deeplyshadowedholloweyes.Someglitteredasthoughwithfever.Dirty,gray,salt-crustedleatherclothes.Mopsofhairundercapsthat,werealmostsliding off. Thomsen actually looked ill: thin as a scarecrow, his cheekscavernous.Thegrinonhisface—certainlymeanttobefriendly—lookedfrozen.“Respectfully report UF back from action against the enemy!”Whereupon

we:“HeilUF!”atfullpitch.FromSupplyDepotOneanechoingsquawk,andthenanother,weaker,from

thePenhoëtwharf.

TheOldMan iswearing his oldest jacket to show his contempt for all thefancydressers.The frontof this ancientpeajackethas long since ceased tobeblueand ismoreofa fadedgray filmedwithdustandspots.Theonce-goldenbuttons are greenwithverdigris.His dress shirt is also an indefinable color—lilacshadingintobluegray.Theblack,white,andredribbonofhisRitterkreuzisnomorethanatwistedstring.

“This is not the old gang,” the OldMan complains, casting an appraisingglanceoveracircleofyoungwatchofficersat thecenter table.“Theseare thetadpoles—allboozeandbigtalk.”Lately two groups have formed in the bar: the “old warriors,” as the Old

Man’screwmatescallthemselves,andthe“youngstrutters,”thephilosophicallyorientedyoungsterswithfaithintheFührerintheireyes,the“chin-thrusters,”astheOldMancalls them,whopractice intimidating looks in frontof themirrorandclenchtheirassesextra-tight,justbecauseit’sinstyletomovespringilyontheballsof thefeetwithbuttocksheldinandbodyinclinedslightlyforward.Istareat thisassemblageofyoungheroesas though Iwere seeing themfor thefirst time.Hairlinemouthswith sharp grooves on either side.Rasping voices.Swollenwiththeirownsuperiorityandcrazyformedals.Notathoughtintheirheadsbut“TheFührer’seyesareuponyou—ourflagisdearerthanlife.”TwoweeksagointheMajesticoneofthemshothimselfbecausehe’dcaught

syphilis. “He gave his life for Volk and Vaterland,” was what they told hisfiancée.In addition to the crew of oldwarriors and young recruits there is also the

outsiderKugler,who sitswithhis first lieutenant close to thewashroomdoor.Kugleroftheoakleaves,whokeepsalooffromeveryone.Kügler,nobleknightof the depths, Parsifal and torchbearer, unshakable believer in Final Victory.Steel-blue eyes, proud bearing, not an ounce too much fat—an immaculateexampleoftheMasterRace.Withtaperedindexfingersheshutshisearswhenheprefersnottohearcowardlymisgivingsorthesneersofdoubtingcynics.The flotilla surgeon occupies a neighboring table. He too has a special

position. His brain is stuffed with a collection of the most astoundingobscenities.Henceheisknownconciselyas“thefilthypig.”Ninehundredandninety-fiveyearsofthethousand-yearReicharealreadygone,intheopinionoftheflotillasurgeon,anopinionbroadcastwheneverheseesfitorisdrunk.Atthirty,thesurgeonenjoysuniversalrespect.Onhisthirdsortieagainstthe

enemy he took over command and brought his boat back to base after thecommanderhadbeenkilledduringaconcentratedattackbytwoaircraftandbothlieutenantslaybadlywoundedintheirbunks.“Somebodydiearoundhere?Whatisthis,awake?Whatkindofplaceisthis

anyway?”“There’senoughnoiseasitis,”growlstheOldMan,takingaquickswallow.

Monique must have grasped what the surgeon was saying. She brings themicrophoneclosetoherscarletlipsasthoughshemeanstolickit,flourishesabundle of violet-colored ostrich feathers with her left hand, and bawls in asmokyvoice,“J’attendrai—lefouretlanuit!”The drummer uses his brushes to evoke a sexy whisper from his silver-

mounteddrum.Shrieking, sobbing, moaning, Monique acts out the song with contortions,

undulatingheropulentblue-white,shimmeringbreasts,valiantlyexercisingherderriereandperforminga lotofhocus-pocuswith the feather fan.Sheholds itbehindherheadlikeanIndianwarbonnetandtapsherpoutinglipsrapidlywiththeflatofherhand.Thenshedrawsthefanupfrombehindandbetweenherlegs—lefouretlanuit”—androllshereyes.Tenderstrokingofthefeathers,bumpsandgrindstowardthefeatherbush—drawnupagainfrombelow—hipsswaying.Shepoutsagainandblowsonherflutteringprop.Allatonceshewinks in thedirectionof thedoorway,over theheadsof the

men around the tables. Aha, U-boat Commander with his adjutant! Thisbeanpole toppedbyadiminutiveschoolboy’sface ishardlyworthmore thanabriefwink.Hedoesn’tevengiveasmileofrecognition,butglaresaroundasiflookingforanotherdoortoescapethroughunobserved.“A highly distinguished visitor come to consort with the mob!” roars

Trumann, an especially recalcitrant member of the old guard, in themidst ofMonique’ssobbing—“…carl’oiseauquis’enfuit.”HeactuallystaggersovertotheCommander-in-Chief’schair.“Comeon,youoldAztec,howaboutchargingthe front line? Come on, here’s a good spot—orchestra seat—the wholelandscape from underneath… not interested?Well, oneman’smeat is anotherman’s…”Asusual,Trumannisdeaddrunk.Hisspikymopofblackhairiscoveredwith

adriftofcigaretteash.Threeorfourbuttshavebecomeentangledinit.Onestillsmoldering.Hemayburstintoflamesatanymoment.HewearshisRitterkreuzbacktofront.Trumann’sboatisknownas“thebarrageboat.”Sincehisfifthpatrolhisbad

luckhasbecomelegendary.He’sseldomatseaformorethanaweek.“Crawlingbackonkneesandnipples,”ashecallsit,hasbecomearegularroutineforhim.Eachtimehehasbeencaughtduringhisapproachto the theaterofoperations:bombedbyflyers,harriedbydepthbombs.Andtherewerealwaysmalfunctions—brokenexhaustpipes,rupturedcompressors—butnotargets.Everyoneinthe

flotilla isprivatelyamazed thatheandhismencanbearupunder their totallydisastrouslackofsuccess.Theaccordionplayerstaresoverhisfoldedbellowsasifhe’dseenavision.

Themulattoiscutoffsomewherearoundthelevelofhisthirdshirtbuttonbythemoonofhisbigdrum:eitherhe’sadwarforhisstoolistoolow.Moniquemakesher roundestandmostcarplikemouthandmoans into themicrophone.“Inmysolitude…”AndTrumannleanscloserandclosertoheruntilhesuddenlyshouts,“Help—poison!” and throws himself over backward. Monique falters. Hethrashesabout,thenstartstogetupagainandbellows,“Arealflame-thrower—shemusthaveeatenawholestringofgarlic—god-oh-god-oh-god!”Trumann’sChief,AugustMayerhofer, appears. Since hewears theGerman

Crossonhisjacket,he’sknownas“AugustoftheFriedEgg.”“Well,howdiditgointhewhorehouse?”Trumannyellsathim.“Areyouall

fuckedout?It’sgoodforthecomplexion.OldPapaTrumanncertainlyoughttoknowbynow.”At the next table they’re bawling in chorus: “0 thou We-es-sterwald The

flotilla surgeon is leading the halting choirwith awine bottle. There is a biground tableclose to thepodium,whichby tacitconsent is reservedfor theoldguard; in the leather chairs around it only the Old Man’s friends andcontemporariessitorsag,moreorlessdrunkenly:KupschandStackmann,“theSiameseTwins”;Merkel, “theAncient”;Kortmann, “the Indian.”They are allprematurely gray, naval gladiators from the word go, who act nonchalantalthoughtheyknowbetterthananyonewhattheirchancesare.Theycanlollforhours at a time—almostmotionless.On the other hand, they can’t lift a glasswithoutshaking.Theyallhavemorethanhalfadozendifficultmissionsbehindthem,theyall

havebeen through theworstkindofnervous tension, refined torture, hopelesssituationsthatswungaroundtotheiradvantagebysomesheermiracle.Notoneof themwhohasn’t comebackwith awreckedboat, against all expectation—upperdeckdemolishedbyaircraftbombs,conningtowerrammedin,stoved-inbow, cracked pressure hull. But each time they did come back, they werestandingboltuprightonthebridge,actingasthoughthewholemissionhadbeenmereroutine.To act as though everything were a matter of course is part of the code.

Howlingandchatteringofteetharenotallowed.U-boatHeadquarterskeepsthegamegoing.ForHeadquarters,anyonewhostillhasaneckandaheadandall

four extremities attached to his torso is all right. For Headquarters, you’recertifiableonlywhenyoustarttorave.Theyshouldlongagohavesentoutfresh,unscathedmentoreplacetheoldcommandersinthefront-lineboats.But,alas,the unscathed novices with their unshaken nerves happen to be far lesscompetent than the old commanders. And the latter make use of everyconceivabletricktokeepfrompartingwithanexperiencedwatchofficerwhoisreallyreadytobecomeacommander.Endrassshouldneverhavebeenallowedtoputtoseaagaininhiscondition.

Hewascompletelydonein.Butthat’sthewayitgoes:U-boatHeadquartershasbeenstruckbyblindness.Theydon’t seewhensomeone isonhis last legs,ortheydon’twanttosee.Afterall,it’stheoldaceswhobroughtinthesuccesses—thecontentsofthelittlebasketforspecialcommuniqués.Thecombotakesabreak.Icanagainhearfragmentsofconversation.“WhereisKallmann?”“Hecertainlywon’tbecoming!”“Youcanseewhy!”Kallmanncameinthedaybeforeyesterdaywiththreevictorypennantsonhis

half-raisedperiscope—three steamers.He sank the lastone, in shallowcoastalwaters,withhiscannon.“Ittookmorethanahundredrounds!Wehadaheavysea.Withourboathoveto,wehadtoshootatanangleofforty-fivedegrees.Wegottheonebeforethatatabout19.00inthetwilight—anunderwatershot.Twohitsonatwelvethousandgrossregisteredtons—onemiss.Thentheywereafterus.Tincansforeightlonghours.Theyprobablyusedupeverythingtheyhadonboard!”With his hollow cheeks and his wispy blond beard, Kallmann looked like

Jesus on the cross. He kept twisting his hands as if each word were beingdraggedoutofhim.Welistened intently,disguisingouruneasinesswithanexaggeratedshowof

interest.Whenwouldhefinallyaskthequestionweweredreading?When he had finished, he stopped twisting his hands and sat motionless,

palmspressedtogether.Andthengazingpastusoverhisfingertipsheaskedwithforcedindifference,“WhatnewsofBartel?”Noanswer.TheCommander-in-Chieflethisheadnodfractionally.“So—well,Iguesseditwhentherewasnofurtherradiocontact.”Aminuteof

silence,thenheaskedurgently,“Doesn’tanyoneknowanythingatall?”

“No.”“Istherestillachance?”“No.”Cigarettesmokehungmotionlessinfrontoftheirmouths.“Wewere together thewhole timeatdock. I ranoutwithhim too,”hesaid

finally.Helpless, embarrassed, Itmade youwant to vomit.We all knewwhatclose friends Kallmann and Bartel were. They always managed to put to seatogether.Theyattackedthesameconvoys.OnceKallmannhadsaid,“Itstiffensyourspineifyouknowyou’renotalone.”Bechtelcomesthroughtheswingingdoor.Withhispale,palehair,eyelashes,

and eyebrows, he looks half scalded.When he is as pale as this, his frecklesstandout.Abighello.He’ssurroundedbyagroupoftheyoungermen.Hehastostand

them drinks, because he’s been “reborn.” Bechtel has gone through anexperience that the OldMan described as “really remarkable.” After a fiercepursuitwithdepthbombsandallsortsofdamagetohisship,hesurfacedinthegrayofdawntofindahissingcanisterlyinginfrontofhiscannonontheupperdeck.The corvette still in the neighborhood and the live bomb in front of theconningtower.Ithadbeensettogooffatagreaterdepthandsohadn’texplodedwhen it fell on Bechtel’s upper deck at two hundred feet. He immediatelyorderedbothdieselsfullspeedaheadandthebosunhadtorollthedepthchargeoverboardlikeabarreloftar.“Itblewtwenty-fivesecondslater.Soitwassetforthreehundredfeet.”Andthenhehadtodiveagainandtooktwentymoredepthcharges.“I would certainly have brought that firecracker back with me,” Merkel

shouted.“We’d have liked to. Only we couldn’t stop that damn hissing. Simply

couldn’tfindthebutton.Absolutelyhilarious!”Theroomisgettingmoreandmorecrowded.ButThomsenisstillmissing.“Whered’yousupposehecanbe?”“Perhapshe’sgettinginonelastquickone.”“Intheshapehe’sin?”“With the Ritterkreuz around your neck, it must give you a whole new

sensation.”

DuringtheawardingoftheRitterkreuzbytheCommander-in-ChiefoftheU-boatsthisafternoon,Thomsenhadstoodasrigidasanironstatue.Hehadsuchagriponhimselfthattherewaspracticallynocolorinhisface.InhisconditionhecouldhardlyhaveheardawordoftheC-in-C’srousingspeech.“He’dbetterlookoutorI’lleatthatlousycurofhis,”Trumannhadmuttered

atthetime.“Thebitchisthereeverytimehereportsin.We’renotrunningazoohere.”“Toy soldier!” he now adds as the Commander-in-Chief withdraws after a

manly handshake and a piercing glance.And, cynically to those in the circle,“Greatwallpaper,” pointing at thephotographsof thedeadon the threewalls,onelittleblack-framedpictureafteranother.“Therebesidethedoor,there’sstillspaceforafewmore!”AlreadyIcanseewhosephotoisgoingtoappearnext:Bechmann’s.Bechmannshouldhavebeenback longago.The three-starannouncement is

suretobeissuedverysoon.TheytookhimofftheParistrainstinkingdrunk.Itrequiredfourmentogethimout—theexpresshadtowaitwhiletheydidit.Youcould have hung him over a clothesline.Completely fucked out.Albino eyes.Andthat’stheshapehewasintwenty-fourhoursbeforeputtingtosea.Howingod’s name did the flotilla surgeon get him on his feet again? Probably anairplanecaughthim.Shortlyafterheclearedport,reportsfromhimceased.Hardtobelieve.TheTommiesarecominginnowascloseaschannelbuoyNanniI.I’mremindedofBode,thenavalstaffofficerinKernével,asolitaryoldman

whousedtogetdrunkallalonelateatnightinthewardroom.Thirtyboatshadbeenlostinasinglemonth.“Youcouldturnintoadrunk,ifyoudranktoeachofthem.”Flechsig,heavyanduncouth,oneoftheOldMan’slastcrew,throwshimself

intothelastemptychairatourtable.HegotbackfromBerlinaweekago.Sincethen,he’shardly said aword.Butnowhebreaksout. “D’youknowwhat thisidiotmonkeysaidtome,thisdolled-upstaffheinie?‘Therightofcommandersto wear white caps is not expressed in any of the regulations regardinguniforms!’Isaid,‘Wouldrespectfullysuggestthattheomissionberectified.’”Flechsig takes a couple of powerful swigs of Martell from a tumbler and

methodicallywipeshismouthwiththebackofhishand.Erler, a young lieutenantwho has completed his first patrol as commander,

keeps opening the door so hard that it bangs against the doorstop. From his

breast pocket dangles the end of a rosecolored slip.Back from leave just thismorning, by afternoon he was in the Majestic waxing eloquent about hisexperiences.Ashetoldit,theyhadheldatorchlightparadeforhimbackinhishometown.Hecouldproveitallwithclippingsfromthenewspapers.Therehestood on the Rathaus balcony, his right hand raised in the German salute: aGermanseaherohailedinhishometown.“Well,he’llquietdownlateron,”mutterstheOldMan.InErler’swakecometheradiocommentatorKress,anoily,intrusivereporter

withexaggeratedideasofhisownimportance,andtheformerprovincialorator,Marks,whonowwrites inflated inspirationalarticlesonEndurance.They looklikeLaurel andHardy inNavyuniforms, the radio creature tall and lanky, theenduringMarksfatandnobbly.AttheirappearancetheOldMangivesanaudiblesnort.The favorite word of the radio people is “continuously,” the “continuously

increasedeffort”inmunitions,victorystatistics,willtoattack.Everythingmustpressoncon—tin—u—ous—ly.Erler plants himself in front of theOldMan and snappily invites him to a

roundofdrinks.ForquiteawhiletheOldMandoesnotreactatall,thenhelayshisheadtoonesideasifforashaveandannouncesdistinctly,“Wealwayshavetimeforaquickswig!”I already know what comes next. In the middle of the room Erler

demonstrates his method of uncorking champagne bottles with a single sharpblowof thebackofaknifeagainst thebulge in theneck.He’sgreatat it.Thecorkandtheglasslipflyoffwithoutleavingasplinterandthechampagneshootsup as though from a foaming fire extinguisher. I am instantly reminded of anexerciseof theDresden firedepartment. In frontof theOperaHouse theyhaderectedasteelmastwithaswastikamadeofpipesincelebrationofReichFirePreventionDay.Aroundthemastaherdofredfirewagonshadbeendrawnup.Theimmensesquarewasjammedwithanexpectantcrowd.Thecommandwasbarkedfromtheloudspeaker:“Foam,forwardmarch!”andoutofthefourendsof the swastika shot the foam; itbegan to rotate, fasterand faster,becomingaspouting windmill. The crowd went “Aaah!” And the foam gradually turnedrosy, then red, then violet, then blue, then green, then yellow. The crowdapplaudedwhileanankle-deepslimeofanalinespreadoutinfrontoftheOperaHouse…

Again the door crashes open. It’s Thomsen—at last. Half supported, halfpushedbyhisofficers,hestaggersin,glassy-eyed.Iquicklydragupachairsothatwecantakehimintoourcircle.Moniqueissinging:“PerhapsIamNapoleon,perhapsIamtheKing…”I gather the wilted flowers from the table and strew them over Thomsen’s

head.Grinning,heallowshimselftobeadorned.“Where’stheCommander-in-Chiefhiding?”askstheOldMan.It’sthefirsttimewerealizethattheC-in-Chasdisappearedagain.Beforethe

realcelebrationhasbegun.Kuglerisnolongerhereeither.“Cowardlybastards!”Trumanngrowls,thenriseslaboriouslyandstaggersoff

betweenthetables.Hereturnswithatoiletbrushinhishand.“Whatthehell’sthatthingfor?”theOldManburstsout.But Trumann only staggers closer. He places himself in front of Thomsen

withhislefthandproppedonourtable,breathesdeeplyacoupleoftimes,andatthetopofhisvoiceroars,“Silenceinthecathouse!”Instantly themusic stops. Trumannmoves the dripping toilet brush up and

downrightinfrontofThomsen’sfaceandbabblestearfully,“Ourmagnificent,esteemed, abstinent, and unwed Führer, who in his glorious ascension frompainter’s apprentice to the greatest battle-leader of all time… is somethingwrong?”Trumann wallows for a few seconds in boozy emotion before going on to

declaim,“Thegreatnavalexpert,theunexcelledoceanstrategist,towhomithasoccurredinhisinfinitewisdom…howdoesitgofromthere?”Trumann throwsaquestioningglancearound thecircle,belchesdeeply,and

startsupagain.“ThegreatnavalleaderwhoshowedthatEnglishbedwetter,thatcigar-smoking syphilitic… ha, what else has he dreamed up? Let’s see… hasshownthatassholeofaChurchilljustwhoknowswhichendisup!”Trumann lets himself sink back into his chair exhausted, and blows his

Cognacbreathstraightintomyface.Inthebadlighthelooksgreen.“…wedubhim knight—we consecrate the new knight! The shitty clown and the shittyChurchill!”Laurel and Hardy force their chairs into our circle. They’re brown-nosing

Thomsen,usinghisdrunkennesstolearnsomethingabouthislastpatrol.Nooneknows exactly why they spend their time trying to get interviews for theirclichédarticles.ButThomsenislongpastthepointofcommunication.Hestares

at thetwoalmost idioticallyandsimplygrowlsastheybusilyputwordsinhismouth:“Yes,exactlyright—blewuppromptly—asexpected!Ahitjustbeyondthebridge—Blue-FunnelSteamer.D’youunderstand?No,notfunny—funnel!”Kress feels thatThomsen is stringinghimalongand swallowsdryly.Looks

likeafoolwithhisAdam’sapplebobbingupanddown.TheOldManisenjoyinghisembarrassmentandwouldn’tdreamofhelping

himout.Thomsenisfinallyincapableoftakinginanythingatall.“Allshit!Shittyfish!”heshouts.Iknowwhathemeans.Inthelastfewweeksthere’sbeenonetorpedofailure

afteranother.Somanydefectsarenoaccident.There’sbeentalkofsabotage.Suddenly Thomsen springs to his feet, terror in his eyes. Glasses fall and

break.Thetelephonehasrung.Hemusthavemistakenitforthealarmbell.“A can of pickled herring!” he now demands, swaying heavily. “Pickled

herringallaround!”IhalfhearfragmentsofwhatMerkelisreportingtohisgroup,behindme.“Thechiefpettyofficerwasgood.First-classman.ThedieselmechanicI’ve

gottogetridof,he’sadeadloss…Thecorvettewasatpositionzero.Thechiefwasslowingettingthelifeboatdown…Therewasonemanswimmingaroundinthedrink.Lookedlikeaseal.Weranuptohimbecausewewantedtoknowthenameoftheship.Blackwithoil.Hangingontoabuoy.”Erler has discovered that it makes a murderous noise if you run an empty

winebottlealongtheribsofaradiator.Two,threebottlesburst,buthedoesn’tgiveup.Scatteredglasscrunchesunderfoot.Moniquethrowshimafuriouslookbecauseshecanhardlymakehergroansheardovertheuproar.Merkelstaggers tohisfeetandgiveshimselfa thoroughscratchingbetween

thelegsthroughhistrouserpocket.NowhisChiefEngineerappears.Thismanisuniversally envied for his ability to produce a tuneon two fingers.He candoanything: the fanciest whistling, commando signals, wild musical arabesques,tremulousfantasies.He’sfeelingexpansiveandimmediatelyagreestoteachme.First,however,he

has to go to the can. When he comes back he says, “Get going, wash yourpaws!”“Why?”

“Ifyou’regoingtobedifficult—okay—onehandwilldo.”AfterI’vewashed,Merkel’sChiefthoroughlyexaminesmyrighthand.Then

decisivelypopsmyindexfingerandmiddlefingerintohismouthandbeginstowhistleacoupleoftrialnotes.Soonawholemelodyemerges,gettinggraduallyshrillerandsharper.Herollshiseyesasheplays.I’mstunned.Twomorecascadesofsound,and

finish.Iexaminemywetfingerswithrespect.Imustpayattentiontothefingerplacement,saystheChief.“Good.”Now I try it, but only extract a couple of honking noises and the

sputterofaleakypressurehose.Merkel’sChiefrewardsmyattemptwithadespairingglance.Thenwithanair

ofassumedinnocenceheputsmyfingersinhismouthagainandoutcomesthesoundofabassoon.Weagreethatitmusthavesomethingtodowiththetongue.“Unfortunately,they’resomethingyoucan’ttrade!”saystheOldMan.“Youth without joy!” Kortmann roars unexpectedly during a pause in the

hubbub.Kortmannwithhiseagle’s face:“theIndian.”AtU-boatHeadquartersinKernévelhe’sbeen indisgrace since the incidentwith the tankerBismarck.Kortmann, thedisobeyeroforders.RescuingGermanseamen!Takinghisboatoutofactiontodoso.Failingtofollowordersoutofsentimentality!CouldonlyhappentoKortmann,oneoftheoldguardwiththeantiquatedcredobrandedonhis brain: “Concern for the fate of the shipwrecked is the first duty of everyseaman!”Muchgoodit’lldohimtoroar,old-fashionedHerrKortmann,whomU-boat

Headquartersfindsalittleslowontheuptakeandwhohasnotyetnoticedthatrequirementshavebecomemorerigorous.Ofcoursebadluckcameintoitaswell.DidtheEnglishcruiserhavetoturn

upjustwhenKortmannwassecurelyconnectedbyfuelhosetothetanker?ThetankerhadreallybeenintendedfortheBismarck.ButtheBismarckdidn’tneedanymore fuel oil. TheBismarck was at the bottom of the ocean, along withtwenty-fivehundredmen,andthetankerwaswallowingalong,fulltothebrimandwithnotakers.ThenCommanddecidedtheU-boatsshouldsuckitdry.Andjust asKortmannwas partaking, it happened.TheEnglishmen shot the tankerawayfromunderhisnose,thefifty-mancrewwasflounderinginthedrink—andwarm-heartedKortmanncouldn’tbringhimselftoletthemgoonfloundering.

Kortmannwasstillproudofhiscatch.FiftyseamenononeVII-Cboat,wherethere’s hardly room for the crew. How he stowed them away is his secret.Probably by the canned sardine method: head to toe, and no unnecessarybreathing.GoodoldKortmanncertainlythoughthe’dperformedamiracle.Drunkennessbegins towipeout theboundarybetween theoldwarriorsand

theyoungstrutters.Theyalltrytotalkatonce.IhearBöhlerreasoning,“Afterall,thereareguidelines—explicitguidelines,gentlemen!Orders!Perfectlyclearorders!”“Guidelines, gentlemen, clear orders.” Thomsen imitates him. “Don’tmake

melaugh.Nothingcouldbelessclear!”ThomsenglancesupsidewaysatBöhler.Suddenlyhehasadevilishgleamin

hiseyeandisentirelyawareofwhat’sgoingon.“Actually,it’spartoftheirplan,allthisuncertainty.”Saemisch sticks his carrot-colored head into the circle. He’s already half

smashed.Inthemurkylight,theskinonhisfacelookslikeapluckedchicken’s.Böhlerbeginstolecturethecarrothead.“Here’sthewayitis.Intotalwarthe

effectofourweaponscan…”“Purepropagandarubbish,”Thomsenjeers.“Let me finish, will you? Now take this as an example. A support cruiser

fished a Tommy out of the drink who’d already been overboard three times.What does that imply for us? Are we carrying on a war or just a demolitioncampaign?Whatgoodisit ifwesinktheirsteamersandthenlet themfishoutthesurvivorssotheycanjustsignonagain?Ofcourse,there’salotofmoneyinitforthem!”Thingsarereallyhot,nowthatBöhlerhasopeneduptheburningtopicthatis

usuallytaboo:destroytheenemyhimselformerelyhisships?“That’sneitherherenorthere,”Saemischinsists.ButhereTrumannbreaksin.

Trumanntheagitatorfeelshimselfchallenged.Athornyproblemthateveryoneducks—exceptTrumann.“Be a little systematic for once.U-boatHeadquarters gives orders:Destroy

theenemy,withunswervingwarlikespirit,withunfalteringseverity,implacableeffort, and so on—all that crap. But U-boat Headquarters hasn’t said a wordaboutattackingmenwhoarestrugglinginthewater.AmIright?”So leather-faced Trumann is wide enough awake to play provocateur.

Thomsenimmediatelyjumpsin.“Well,ofcoursenot.Ithassimplybeenmade

un-mis-tak-ably clear that it is precisely the loss of crews that hits the enemyhardest.”Trumannlooksslyandstokesthefirealittle.“Sowhat?”Thomsen,inflamedbythebrandy,promptlyprotests.“Theneveryonehasto

decideforhimself—verysmart!”NowTrumann really fans the flames.“There’sonepersonwho’s solved the

probleminhisownwayandmakesnobonesaboutit.Don’ttouchahairoftheirheads,butshootupthelifeboats.Iftheweatherhappenstohelpthemsinkfast,so much the better—that’s that! The conventions have been respected. That’sright,isn’tit?U-boatHeadquarterscanconsideritselfunderstood!”Everyoneknowswhoismeant,butnoonelooksatFlossmann.IhavetothinkaboutthestuffIwanttotakewithme.Onlywhat’sabsolutely

necessary.Certainlytheheavysweater.Cologne.Razorblades—Icandowithoutthem.“Thewholethingisafarce.”Thomsenagain.“Aslongasamanhasadeck

underhisfeetyoucanshoothimdown,butifthepoorbuggerisstrugglinginthewater,yourheartbleedsforhim.Prettyridiculous,isn’tit?”Trumannstartsupagain.“Iwanttoexplainwhatitreallyfeelslike…”“Yes?”“If it’sonlyoneman,youimagine itcouldbeyou.It’sonlynatural.Butno

one can identifywith awhole steamer.That doesn’t strikehome.But a singleman!Instantlyitalllooksdifferent.That’sgettinguncomfortable.Sotheypatchanethictogether—andpresto,everything’sbeautifulagain.”Theheavysweater thatSimoneknitted forme is terrific.Collar reaching to

themiddleoftheears,alldoneincablestitch;andit’snotanass-freezereither,butniceandlong.Maybewe’llreallygonorth.DenmarkRoad.Orallthewayup.TheRussianconvoys.Lousythatnoonehasanyidea.“But the men in the water really are defenseless,” Saemisch insists in a

plaintive,righteousvoice.Itstartsalloveragain.Thomsen gestures in resignation, murmurs, “Oh shit!” and lets his head

slump.I feelanurgentdesire togetupandgetout, togopackmythingsproperly.

Oneortwobooks.Butwhichones?Nomorebrandyfumes!Theatmospherein

herewouldflattenaprizefighter.Trytokeepmyheadclear.Lastnightashore.Extrafilms.Mywide-anglelens.Thefur-linedcap.Blackcapandwhitesweater.I’llcertainlylooksilly.Theflotillasurgeonissupportinghimselfonoutspreadarms,onehandonmy

leftshoulder,theotherontheOldMan’sright,asthoughabouttoperformontheparallelbars.Themusichasstartedupagain;over ithe roarsat the topofhisvoice,“Arewehere foraRitterkreuzcelebrationoraphilosophysession?Cutthebullshit!”The surgeon’s bellow startles a couple of officers to their feet and they

immediatelyproceedasifoncue.Theygetuponchairsandpourbeerintothepiano,whilealieutenant-commanderpoundsthekeyslikemad.Onebottleafteranother.Thepianoswallowsthebeerunprotestingly.The combo and the piano don’t make enough noise, so the phonograph is

turnedon.Atmaximumvolume:“Where’sthattiger?Where’sthattiger?”Atallblondlieutenantripsoffhisjacket,leapssmoothlyintoasquatonthe

tableandstartsflexinghisstomachmuscles.“Ought to be on the stage!”—“Fantastic!”—“Cut it out, you’remakingme

horny!”Duringthefreneticapplauseonemanwrapshimselfupcomfortablyintheredrunneronthefloor,putsthelifepreserver,whichhasbeenhangingasadecorationonthewall,aroundhisneck,andgoesrighttosleep.Bechtel,hardlyoneofnature’sexhibitionists,staresintospacewhileclapping

intimetoarumbathatisdemandingtheutmostfromthebellydancer.OurChief,whountilnowhasbeensittingsilently,thinking,alsogetsoutof

hand.Heclimbsupthelatticeworkattachedtothewallabovetheplatformand,imitatingamonkey,plucksawayattheartificialgrapevineintimetothemusic.Thelatticesways,remainsstandingforamomenttwofeetfromthewall,asinanoldBusterKeatonfilm,thencrashesdownwiththeChiefontotheplatform.Thepianoplayerhashisheadbentwayback—asifheweretryingtodeciphersomenoteson theceiling—andbangsout amarch.Agroup formsaround thepianoandbawls:

We'llmarch,march,march,Thoughheavenrainsdowncrap.We'reheadinghometoSlimeville,Fromthisassholeoffthemap.

“Classy,virile,Teutonic,”growlstheOldMan.Trumannstaresathisglass,andisgalvanized;hespringstohisfeetandroars,

“Skoal!”Fromagoodsixinchesabovehismouthhepoursastreamofbeerintohimself,sendingabroadflowofslobberdownhisjacket.“Arealorgy!”IhearfromMeinig,thedirtiestmouthintheflotilla.“Allthat’s

missingiswomen.”As though thatwere a signal,Merkel’sNumbersOne and Two get up and

leave. Before reaching the door they exchangemeaningful glances. I thoughttheyhadalreadygone.“Wheneveryou’rescared,gogetlaid,”mutterstheOldMan.FromaneighboringtableImakeout:

Wheneverpassionseizedhim,He'dleapuponthekitchentableAndscrewthehamburger…

That’s thewayitalwaysis.TheFührer’snobleknights, thepeople’sradiantfuture—afewroundsofCognacwasheddownwithsomeBeck’sbeerandtheregoesourdreamofspotless,shiningarmor.“Remarkable,”saystheOldMan,reachingforhisglass.“Thisshitofachair—can’tgetup!”“Ha!”comesfromsomeoneintheneighborhoodcircle.“That’swhatmygirl

saystoo.Can’tgetupagain—can’tgetupagain!”The table is awildmess of champagne bottleswith broken necks, ashtrays

swimming with butts, pickled herring cans, and shattered glasses. Trumannglances thoughtfully at this rubbish heap.When the piano finally stops for amoment,heraiseshisrighthandandroars,“Attention!”“Thetableclothtrick!”saysourChief.Trumanncarefullytwistsonecorneroftheclothlikearope;hetakesagood

fiveminutesbecauseitgetsawayfromhimtwicewhenit’shalfready.Thenwithhisfreelefthandhegivesasignaltothepianoplayer,whoalmostseemstohaverehearsedtheact,forhestrikesaflourishonthekeys.Trumannsettleshisfeetwith the concentration of a weightlifter, stands perfectly still for a momentstaringathistwohandsastheygripthetwistedcornerofthecloth,andsuddenlywithaprimitivewarwhoopandamightyswingofthearms,hepullsthecloth

halfwayoff the table.A jarringcascadeofsmashingglass,splinteringcrashofbottlesandplatesfallingtothefloor.“Shit—fuckingshit!”hecurses,andstaggerscrunchingthroughtheshattered

glass.Hesteersuncertainlyforthekitchenandbellowsforabroomandshovel.Thenamidthemadlaughterofthewholecrowdhecrawlsaroundbetweenthetables andgrimly clearsup the litter, leaving a trail of bloodbehindhim.Thehandles of the brush and the garbage shovel are immediately smearedwith it.Two lieutenants try to take the implements away from Trumann but heobstinately insistsongatheringupevery lastsplinter.“Clearup—everything—mustfirstbeord—ly,clearedup—alwaysjustright,shipshape…”Finallyheletshimselfdowninhischair,andtheflotillasurgeondrawsthree

or foursplintersoutof theballsofhis thumbs.Bloodcontinues todripon thetable.ThenTrumannrubshisbloodyhandsacrosshisface.“Hell’steeth!”saystheOldMan.“Doesn’tmatterashit!”Trumannroars,butallowsthewaitresstoapplysmall

adhesivebandages,whichshebringswithareproachfullookinhereyes.Hehashardlybeeninhischairfiveminuteswhenhepullshimselftohisfeet

again, yanks a crumpled newspaper out of his pocket and yells, “If you’venothingelsetosay,youboneheads,here—herearesomegoldenwords.”Iseewhathe’sholding:thewillofLieutenant-CommanderMonkeberg,who

died ostensibly in combat but actually lost his life in a completely unmilitaryfashion, to wit, by breaking his neck. And his neck broke somewhere in theAtlanticinasmoothsea,simplybecausetheweatherwassofineandhewantedtogoswimming.Justashedivedfromtheconningtower,theboatrolledintheoppositedirectionandMonkebergcrackedhisheadagainsttheballasttank.Hismanlyswansongwasprintedinallthepapers.Trumannholds theclippingoutatarm’s length.“Allalike—oneforall—all

forone—andsoIsaytoyou,comrades,onlyauniquedeterminationtofight—the background of this dramatic battle of worldhistoric significance—anonymousheroiccourage—historicgrandeur—whollyincomparable—standingalone—imperishable chapter of noble endurance and martial sacrifice—thehighestideal—thoselivingnowandthoseyettocome—tobefruitful—toproveoneselfworthyoftheeternalheritage!”Stillholdingthesoddenandillegiblepieceofpaper,heswaysbackandforth,

buthedoesn’tfall.Hisshoesseemstuckfasttothefloor.

“Crazybugger,”saystheOldMan.“Noonecanstophimnow.”Alieutenantsitsdownatthepianoandstartsplayingjazz,butthismakesno

difference to Trumann. His voice cracks. “We comrades—standard-bearers ofthefuture—lifeandspiritofahumanelitewith theconceptof ‘service’as thehighest ideal—a shining example for those left behind—courage that outlivesdeath—lonely resolve—calm acceptance of fate—endless daring—love andloyaltyofsuchboundlessnessasyourabblecouldn’tbegintoconceiveof—moreprecious than diamonds—endurance—jawohl—proud and manly—hurrah!—findshisgraveinthedepthsoftheAtlantic.Hah!Deepestcomradeship—battlefrontandhomeland—willingnesstosacrificetotheutmost.OurbelovedGermanpeople. Our splendid God-sent Führer and supreme Commander. Hell! Hell!Hell!”Some of them join in.Böhler looks severely at Trumann, like a governess,

pusheshimself upout of his chair to his full height, anddisappearswithout awordoffarewell.“You—you there,get away frommy tit!”Monique screams.Shemeans the

surgeon.Apparentlyhehasmadehimselftoocompanionable.“ThenI’lljustcrawlbackinsidemyforeskin,”heyawnsandthecirclebursts

intouproariouslaughter.Trumanncollapsesontohischairandhiseyelidsdroop.MaybetheOldMan

wasmistakenafterall.He’sgoingtopassoutrightinfrontofus.Thenheleapsupasthoughbittenbyatarantula,andwithhisrighthandfishesarevolveroutofhispocket.AnofficernearhimhasenoughreflexeslefttostrikedownTrumann’sarm.A

shothits thefloor, justmissingtheOldMan’sfoot.Hesimplyshakeshisheadandsays,“Notevenmuchofabangwithallthismusicgoingon.”Thepistoldisappears,andTrumannsinksbackinhischair,lookingsullen.Monique,whohasbeenslowtorecognizetheshot,springsoutfrombehind

thebar, sashaysherwaypastTrumann,strokinghimunder thechinas thoughshe were soaping him for a shave, then leaps quickly onto the platform andmoansintothemicrophone.“Inmysolitude…”OutofthecornerofmyeyeIseeTrumannriseinslowmotion.Reseemsto

divide each movement into its individual components. He stands, grinningcraftily and swaying for at least five minutes until Monique has finished herwailing,thenduringthefranticapplausehefeelshiswaybetweenthetablesto

thebackwall,leansthereawhilestillgrinning,andfinallywhipsoutasecondpistol from his belt and shouts, “Everyone under the table!” so loud that theveinsinhisneckstandout.Thistimenooneiscloseenoughtostophim.“Well?”TheOldMansimplystretcheshisfeetoutinfrontofhimandslidesoutofhis

chair. Three or four others take cover behind the piano. The piano player hasfallentohisknees.I toocrouchonthefloor inanattitudeofprayer.Suddenlythereisdeadsilenceintheroom—andthenonebangafteranother.TheOldMan counts them aloud.Monique is under a table screaming in a

highvoicethatcutstothebone.TheOldManshouts,“That’sit!”Trumannhasemptiedhismagazine.I peer over the edge of the table. The five ladies on the wall above the

platformhavelosttheirfaces.Plasterisstilltricklingdown.TheOldManisthefirst togetupandobservethedamage,hisheadcockedtooneside.“Fantasticperformance—rodeostandard—andalldonewithwoundedfists!”Trumannhasalreadykickedthepistolawayandisgrinningwithdelightfrom

eartoear.“Abouttime,don’tyouthink?AbouttimethoseloyalGermancowsgotit,eh?”He’salmostdeliriouswithself-satisfaction.Handsintheair,shriekinginahighfalsettoasifafraidforherlife,readyto

surrender—enterthe“madam.”When the OldMan sees her, he slides down out of his chair again. “Take

cover!”someoneroars.Amiraclethatthisover-riggedoldfrigate,whofunctionsasthehostesshere,

has taken tillnow toput inanappearance.ShehasdolledherselfupSpanish-fashion,spitcurlsplastereddowninfrontofherearsandagleamingtortoiseshellcombinherhair—awobblingmonumentwithrollsoffatbulgingoutallover.She’swearingblacksilkslippers.Thereareringswithhugeimitationstonesonhersausage-likefingers.ThismonsterenjoysthespecialfavorsoftheGarrisonCommander.Ordinarily her voice sounds like bacon sizzling in the pan. But now she’s

yowlingaway inastringofcurses.“Kaput,kaput,” Imanage todistinguish inthegeneralyammer.

“Kaput—she’srightaboutthat,”saystheOldMan.Thomsen lifts a bottle to his mouth and sucks at the Cognac as if from a

nipple.Merkelsavesthesituation.Heclambersontoachairandvigorouslybeginsto

conductachoir:“OhthoublessedChristmastide…”Wealljoininenthusiastically.The “madam” wrings her hands like a tragedienne. Her squeaks only

occasionallycutthroughourperformance.Shelooksreadytotearherspangleddressfromherbody,butthensimplytearsatherhairwithherdark-redlacquerednailsinstead,screeches,andrushesoff.Merkelfallsfromhischair,andthechorusebbsaway.“Whatamadhouse!Christ,whataracket!”saystheOldMan.In any case, I think, I must take the warm bodyband along. Angora wool.

First-ratestuff.TheflotillasurgeondrawsMoniqueontohislap;hehasholdofherrearend

withhisrighthandandwithhis left israisingherrightbreastas ifweighingamelon.ThevoluptuousMonique,straininginherscrapofadress,shrieks,tearsherselfloose,andcollideswiththephonographsothattheneedleshootsacrossthegrooveswithadull,groaningfart.She’sgigglinghysterically.Thesurgeonpounds the tablewithhis fistsuntil thebottles jump,and turns

redasaturkeycockwithrepressedlaughter.Someoneputsbotharmsaroundhisneckfrombehindtoembracehim,butwhenthehandsdisappear,thesurgeon’stieiscutshortdirectlyundertheknot,andhedoesn’tevennotice.ThelieutenantwiththeshearshasalreadychoppedoffSaemisch’stie,andthenThomsen’s,andMonique,watching all this, falls overbackwardon the stagehavinghysterics,and her wildly kicking legs reveal that she’s wearing only tiny black pantiesunder her dress, just a kind of G-string. “Wooden eye” Belser already has asiphon in his hand and is directing a sharp streamupbetweenher thighs, andshe’s squealing like a dozen little pigswhose tails are being pinched.Merkelnotices that the ends of his tie aremissing, theOldManmurmurs, “Cleancutraid,” andMerkel seizes a half-filled Cognac bottle and hurls it into the tie-cutter’sstomach,doublinghimup.“Neat—perfectthrow,”theOldMansaysapprovingly.Andnowapieceofthelatticefliesthroughtheair.Weallduckexceptforthe

OldMan,whositsthereunmovedandgrinning.

Thepianogetsanotherswallowofbeer.“Schnappsmakesyouim-po-tent!”Thomsenstammers.“Backtothecathouseagain?”theOldManasksme.“No.Justsleep.Atleastacoupleofhoursstill.”Thomsen laboriously pulls himself to his feet. “With you—I’m coming—

fuckingdenof thieves—let’sgo—justonemorestopat thewaterhole,onelastgoodleak!”

Thewhitemoonlightbeyondtheswingingdoorhitsmelikeablow.Iwasn’tpreparedfor light:aglitterof flowingsilver.Thebeachablue-whitestrip inacoldfireofpureradiance;streets,houses,everythingbathedinicy,glowingneonlight.My god! There’s never been a moon like this. Round and white like a

Camembert. Gleaming Camembert. You could read the paper by it with notroubleatall.Thewholebayasinglesheetofglitteringsilverfoil.Theenormousstretchfromcoasttohorizonamyriadofmetallicfacets.Silverhorizonagainstvelvet-blacksky.Inarrowmyeyes.Theislandbeyondisadarkcarp’sbackinthedazzle.The

funnelofasunkentransport,thefragmentofamast—allsharpasaknifeedge.Ipropmyselfagainstthelowconcretewall;thefeelofpumiceonthepalmsofmyhands.Disagreeable.Thegeraniumsin theflowerboxes,eachblossomseparateanddistinct.Mustardgasbombsaresupposedtosmelllikegeraniums.Theshadows!Theroarofthesurfalongthebeach!Ihavethegroundswellin

myhead.Thegleaming,spangledsurfaceofthemoonseabearsmeupanddown,upanddown.Adogbarks;themoonisbarking…Where isThomsen, thenewknight?Where thehell isThomsen?Back into

theRoyalagain.Youcouldcuttheairwithaknife.“What’sbecomeofThomsen?”Ikickopenthedoortothecan,carefulnottotouchthebrassknob.ThereliesThomsen,stretchedoutonhisrightsideinagreatpuddleofurine,

aheapofvomitbesidehishead,blockingtheurineinthegutter.Ontopofthegratingoverthedrainisasecondgreatmessofit.TherightsideofThomsen’sface is resting in this concoction.HisRitterkreuzdangles in it too.Hismouth

keepsformingbubblesbecausehe’sforcingsoundsout.ThroughthegurglingIcanmakeout,“Fighton—victoryordeath.Fighton—victoryordeath.Fighton—victoryordeath.”InaminuteI’llbevomitingtoo.Risingnauseaagainsttheroofofmymouth.“Comeon,onyourfeet!”Isaybetweenclenchedteethandseizehimbythe

collar.Idon’twantthatmessonmyhands.“I wanted to—wanted to—tonight I wanted to—really fuck myself out,”

Thomsenmutters.“NowI’minnoshapetofuckanything.”The Old Man appears. We take Thomsen by the ankles and wrists; half

dragging,halfcarryinghim,wegethimthroughthedoor.Therightsideofhisuniformiscompletelydrenched.“Givemeahandwithhim!”I have to let go. I rush back into the can. In one great torrent the entire

contentsofmystomachgushoutontothetilefloor.Convulsiveretching.Tearsinmyeyes.Ipropmyselfagainstthetilewall.MyleftsleeveispushedupandIcanseethedialofmywristwatch:twoo’clock.Shit.AtsixthirtytheOldManiscomingtodriveustotheharbor.

IIDEPARTURE

Therearetworoadstotheharbor.TheCommandertakesthesomewhatlongerone,whichrunsalongthecoast.Withburningeyes, Iobserve the thingswegopast, theantiaircraftbatteries

with their mottled camouflage in the gray morning light. The signs forHEADQUARTERS—capitallettersandmysteriousgeometricfigures.Awallofshrubbery. A couple of grazing cows. The shattered village of ReceptionImmaculée.Billboards.Ahalf-collapsedkiln.Twocarthorsesbeingledbythehalter.Laterosesinuntendedgardens.Thesplotchedgrayofhousewalls.I have to keep blinking because my eyes still smart from all the cigarette

smoke.Thefirstbombcraters;ruinedhousesthatanflouncetheharbor.Heapsofoldiron.Grasswitheredbythesun.Rustedcanisters.Anautomobilegraveyard.Parched sunflowers bent over by the wind. Tattered gray laundry. The half-riddledbaseofamonument.PartiesofFrenchmeninBasqueberets.Columnsofourtrucks.Theroaddescendsintotheshallowrivervalley.Thickfogstillhangsoverthislowground.Awearyhorseintheheavymisthaulingacart,itstwowheelsastallasaman.

A house with glazed roof tiles. A once-enclosed verandah, now a mass ofsplintered glass and twisted ironwork. Garages. A fellow in a blue apron,standinginadoorway,thewetbuttofacigarettestuckontohisfleshylowerlip.The clanking of a freight train. A siding. The riddled railway station.

Everything gray. Innumerable nuances of gray, from dirty plaster-white toyellowish rusty-black. Sharp whistling of the shunting engine. I feel sandbetweenmyteeth.French dockworkers with black hand-sewn shoulder bags. Astonishing that

theygoonworkingheredespitetheairraids.Ahalf-sunkenshipwithpatchesofredleadshowing.Probablyanoldherring

boatthatwastohavebeenrebuiltassomekindofpatrolvessel.Atugpullsoutinto the shipping lanewith a high forecastle and the lines of its hull bulgingunderwater. Women with huge asses in torn overalls, holding their riveting

machineslikemachineguns.Thefireinaportablesmithyglowsredthroughthegraymurk.Thecraneson theirhighstiltsareall still standing—despite theconstantair

attacks.Thepressurewavesfromthedetonationsmeetwithnoresistanceintheirironfiligree.Ourcarcan’tgoanyfartherintheconfusionoftherailroadyard.Railsbent

intoarches.Thelastfewhundredyardstothebunkerwehavetocoveronfoot.Four heavily bundled figures in single file in the mist: the Commander, theChief, theSecondWatchOfficer, and I.TheCommanderwalks bent over, hiseyesfixedonthepath.Overthestiffcollarofhisleatherjackethisredscarfhasworkeditswayupalmosttohisspottedwhitecap.Hekeepshisrighthanddeepinthepocketofhisjacket;theleftishookedintothejacketbythethumb.Underhisleftelbowhecarriesabulgingsailclothbag.Hisbandy-leggedgaitismadeevenheavierbyhisclumsyseaboatswiththeirthickcorksoles.I follow two paces behind. Then comes the Chief. He walks in a kind of

unsteady bob. Rails that don’t even check the Commander’s stride force theChieftoproceedinshort,springinghops.He’snotwearingleathergearlikeusbutgray-greenoveralls—likeamechanicwearinganofficer’scap.Hecarrieshisbagproperlybythehandle.Last in line is the Second Watch Officer, the shortest of us all. From his

mutteringstotheChief,Imakeoutthathe’safraidtheboatwillnotbeabletoput out on time because of the fog. There is not so much as a breath of airstirringinthedrippingmist.Wegothroughalandscapeofcraters.Inthedepthsofeachshellholethefog

hassettledlikethicksoup.TheSecondWatchOfficerhas thesamekindofsailclothbagunderhisarm

theCommanderandIdo.Everythingwe’retakingonthispatrolmustfitintoit:a big bottle of cologne,woolen underwear, a bodyband, knitted gloves, and acoupleofshirts.I’mwearingtheheavysweater.Oilskins,seaboots,andescapeapparatusarewaitingformeontheboat.“Blackshirtsarebest,” thenavigatorhadadvisedmeandaddedknowledgeably,“blackdoesn’tshowdirt.”TheFirstWatchOfficerandtheapprenticeengineerarealreadyonboardwith

thecrew,readyingtheboatforsea.Overtheharbortothewesttheskyisstillfullofshadows,buteastwardabove

the roadstead, behind the black silhouette of the freighter lying at anchor, the

paledawn lighthas already reached the zenith.Theuncertainhall-lightmakeseverythingstrangeandnew.Theskeletalcranesthattowerabovethebarefaçadeoftherefrigerationdepotandthelowroofsofthestorageshedsarelikecharredblack stakes for giant fruit. On the tarpaper roofs, ships’ masts have beenerected;alongthemcoilwhiteexhauststeamandoilyblacksmoke.Theplasteronthewindowlesssideofthehalfbombedhousehasbeenattackedbyleprosy;it’s falling away in big pieces. In huge white letters across the dirty redbackgroundoftheruinsswaggersthewordBYRRH.Overnight,hoarfrosthasspreadlikemildewovertherubblestillleftfromthe

lastairraid.Ourpathleadsbetweenruins.Insteadofthestoresandinnsthatoncelinedthe

streetstherearenowonlysplinteredsignsaboveemptywindows.OftheCaféduCommerceonlythe“Comme”remains.TheCafédelaPaixhasdisappearedintoa bomb crater. The iron framework of a burned-out factory has folded inwardintoagiganticthistle.Trucks are coming toward us—a column of them, carrying sand for the

constructionofthebunkerchannel.ThewindfromtheirpassagepicksupemptycementbagsandblowsthemagainstthelegsoftheCommanderandtheSecondWatchOfficer.Whiteplasterdusttakesourbreathawayforamomentandclingslikemealtoourboots.TwoorthreeshatteredcarswithWehrmachtnumberslieoverturned, their wheels in the air. Thenmore charred timbers and blown-offroofs,lyingliketentsamidthetwistedrailroadtracks.“They’vecertainlymessedtheplaceupagain,”growlstheCommander.The

Chieftakesthisforanimportantcommunicationandhurriesuptohim.Then theCommander stops, clamps his sailcloth bag between his legs, and

systematicallydigsoutofthepocketofhisleatherjacketashabbypipeandanoldbatteredlighter.Whilewestandabout,shiveringandhunchedover,theOldMancarefully lights the already full pipe.Now, like a steamer,he trailswhitecloudsofsmokeashehurriesalong,frequentlyturningbacktowardus.Hisfaceistwistedinamournfulgrimace.OfhiseyesintheshadowoftheVisorofhiscapnothingatallisvisible.WithouttakinghispipefromhismouthheaskstheChiefinaraspingvoice,

“Istheperiscopeinorder?Hastheblurbeenfixed?”“Jawohl, Herr Kaleun. A couple of lenses came loose in their cement

bedding,probablyduringanairattack.”

“Andthetroublewiththerudder?”“All fixed. Therewas a break in the cable connectionwith the E-machine.

That’swhycontactwasintermittent.Weputinawholenewcable.”Beyondalineofbillboardsthereisalongrowoffreightcars.Behindthem,

theway leads straightacross the tracks, thenalongamud-choked roaddeeplyruttedbythetransporttrucks.Slantingironbarsarmedwithathicketofbarbedwireflanktheroad.Infront

of the guardhouse, sentries stand with raised collars, their faces hidden, likephantoms.Suddenlytheairisfilledwithametallicclatter.Thisrattlingceasesabruptly

and an increasingly shrillwhistle froma siren, as visible as a cloudof steam,hangsinthecolddampwindthatsmellsoftar,oil,androttenfish.Moreburstsofmetallicsound.Theairisheavyandpregnantwiththem:we

areinthewharfarea.Toourleftyawnsagiganticexcavation,longstringsoftip-carsdisappearinto

itsmurkydepths.Theypuffandrattleaboutbelow.“Therearegoingtobenewbunkersalloverthisarea,”saystheOldMan.Nowwe’reheadedforthepier.Deadwaterunderwadsoffog.Shipsmoored

soclosebesideandbehindoneanotherthattheeyecan’tevendistinguishtheirshapes. Battered, salt-encrusted fishing steamers, now serving as patrol boats,strangefloatingvehiclessuchaslighters,oilbarges,harbordefenseboatslyingnext to one another in packets of three—the bedbug flotilla—that whollyunaristocraticconfusionofshabby,wornoutworkandsupplyboatsthatisnowapartofeverycommercialharbor.TheChiefpointsintothefog.“Overthere—abittotherightonthatsix-story

house—there’sacarupthere!”“Wheredoyoumean?”“Overthegableofthesupplyshed—thehousewiththewreckedroof!”“Howthehelldiditgetthere?”“Daybeforeyesterday in theattackon thebunker.Bombscomingdownas

bigasphonebooths.Isawthatbuggyflyupandlandontheroof—rightonitswheels!”“Acircusact!”“AndthewaytheFrenchmensuddenlyvanished.Couldn’tbelieveit.”

“WhatFrenchmen?”“There’salwaysawholedockfuloffishermen.You’llalwaysfindsomeright

besidetheentrancetoPenNumberOne.Youjustcan’tgetridofthem.”“Of course they must have been keeping watch for the Tommies—which

boatsgooutandwhichofthemmakeitback—withexacttimes!”“They’renotspyinganymore.Whenthealarmsoundedthey justsatwhere

theywere,twentyorthirtyofthem—andthenoneofthosehugebombssmashedintothepier.”“Itcaughtthebunkertoo.”“Yes,adirecthit—butitdidn’tpenetrate.Twentyfeetofreinforcedconcrete.”Metalplatesbendunderour feetandspringback into theiroldpositions.A

locomotivewhistlesapiercingcryofwoe.Beyondtheheavy,bouncingfigureoftheCommanderthereslowlyemergesa

concrete shape loomingover everything. Its sidewalls are lost in the fog.Wehurrytowardabarefrontwithoutcornice,doors,orwindowopenings.It lookslikethesideofamightyfoundationforatowerplannedtoclimbfarabovetheclouds.Onlythetwenty-foot-thickcoveringseemsslightlyoutofproportion—aheavyload;itlooksasthoughithadjammedthewholestructuresomedistancebackintotheearth.Wehavetomakeourwayaroundblocksofconcrete,railroadtracks,pilesof

boards,andpipesasthickasaman’sthigh.Finallywecometothenarrowsideofthestructure,anentranceprotectedbyheavilyarmoredsteeldoors.Furious riveting greets us from the dark interior. The rattling stops

occasionally,onlytoresumeandgrowtoathunderousuproar.Thereishalfdarknessinthebunker.Onlythroughtheentrancewaysfromthe

harborbasincanapalelightpenetrateintotheconcretecaves.Twobytwo,theU-boatsliemooredintheirpens.Thebunkerhastwelvepens.Someofthemareconstructed as dry docks. The boxes are divided from one another by hugeconcrete walls. The entrance to the pens can be protected by lowering steelbulkheads.Dust,fumes,thestinkofoil.Acetylenetorcheshiss,weldingtorchessputter,

crackle,andhowl.Hereandtherefireworksshootupfromtheblowtorches.Wego in single file along the concrete ramp that leads straight through the

bunkeratrightangles to thedocks.Wehavetobescrupulouslycareful.Loosematerial is lying around everywhere. Snakelike cables are trying to snare our

feet.Railwaycarsblockthepath.They’rebringinginnewmachineparts.Vansaredrawnupclosetothefreightcars.Onthem,cradledinspecialsupports,arethedullyshimmeringtorpedoes,dismountedcannonandanti-aircraftguns,andeverywherepipes,hawsers,morecables,heapsofcamouflagenetting.From the left, warm yellow light streams out of the windows of the

workshops, carpenter shops, smithies, machine shops, torpedo, artillery, andperiscopeshops.Underthisconcreteroofawholeshipyardhasbeeninstalled.The Commander turns back. The sudden flaming of a welding torch

illuminates his face with bluish light. Blinded, he squints. When the noiselessensforaninstantheshoutsattheChief,“Didanythingspecialturnupindrydock?”“Yes.Thestarboardpropeller—bentblade.”“Aha,thatwasthesingingnoisewehadatsilentrun!”“Newpropellers—we’vegotbrand-newpropellers,HerrKaleun!”“Noiseless?Doesthehydroplanework?”“Yes, sir—the gear—took it apart—replaced the wheel—rusted places—

cogwheel—everythinginorder!”Inthepenstotherightliewrecks,disabledboatswithpatchesofrustandred

leadshowing.Smellofrust,paint,oil,putridacidsandburnedrubber,benzine,seawater,androttenfish.Beyondthefloodedpensarethedrydocks.Farbelow,insideoneofthem,a

boatlieswithopenbelly,likeanevisceratedwhale.Awholecrowdofdockyardmen are at work on it—small as dwarfs, insects around a dead fish. At themomentlargepiecesoftheouterskinarebeingcutawaywithblowtorches.Thedamagedhullshowsitsjaggededgesinthelightoftheflames.Compressed-airhosesinthickbundlesandelectriccableshangoutoftheboat’sinterior.Vitalsand entrails. The round steel cylinder of the pressure hull is laid bare for thewholelengthoftheforeship.Overthedieselroomthereisanopening.Yellowlightstreamsfromtheinsideoftheboat.Icanlookdeepintoitsguts.Thehugeblocksof thediesel engines, the tangledmassofpipes andconduits.Now thehookofthecranedescendsovertheboat.Anewloadisattached.Itlooksasiftheboatweretobecompletelyemptiedout%“Theywentthroughaheavydepthchargeattack,”saystheChief.“Sheermiracletheygotbackwiththatbombed-outtub!”TheCommanderleadsthewaytoaconcretestairwaydescendingintothedry

dock.Thestepsaresmearedwithoil;runningdownthemareinsulatedcablesinthickbundles.Again the hissing flame of a welding torch leaps up, plucking part of the

floodedbunkeroutof thehalfdarkness.Fartherback in thepenmoreweldingflames,andthewholeboatiscaughtintheirflickeringlight.Thesearenotthefamiliar stylish lines of surface vessels; from the flat sides the forwardhydroplanesextendlikefins,amidshipsthehull isdistended.Thickrollscurveout to the right and left from thebelly—thebuoyancy tanks.Theyareweldedontotheboatlikeasaddle.Everythingisinacircularcurve:acompletelysealedandrounded-offcreatureofthedeep,withitsownspecialanatomy.Theribshereareclosedrings.Alongonesideofthebowasteelplatemoves,openingupadarkslot.Slowly

theplatemovesfartherback,enlargingthehole.Itwidensintoagapingmouth:anuncoveredtorpedotube.Twodockworkers trywaving theirarms inorder tocommunicateabove the

racketofthepneumatichammers.Thetorpedotubecoverclosesagain.“Looks worse than it is. Pressure hull—still perfectly good—all in order!”

roarstheOldMan.I feel someone grasp my arm. The Chief is standing beside me, his head

cockedtooneside,Heislookingupovertheroundedbellyoftheboat.“Fantastic,isn’tit?”Fromabove,theguardlooksdown,hismachinegunoverhisshoulder.Weclamberoverpilesofscaffoldingtowardthestern.Thegroundplanofthe

boatcanbe seenquiteclearly.Theextendedsteel cylinderencloses thepowerplants, the batteries, and the living quarters. This cylinder together with itscontentsisalmostasheavyasthewateritdisplaces.ItisaVII-Cboat,likeours.I remember: length220feet;width20feet;displacement1,005cubicyardsonthesurfaceand1,138cubicyardssubmerged—averysmalldifference.Theboatsimplyhasveryfewpartsthatriseabovethesurface.Draftonthesurface16feet—anaverage figure, for actually thedraft isvariable.Onecanalter it inchbyinch.Thedraftcorresponds to thedisplacementof660tonsofwaterwhentheboatisonthesurface.Inadditiontoourtype,thereisalsoTypeIIwith275tonsandTypeIX-Cwith

1,100 tons on the surface and 1,355 tons submerged. The VII-C boat is the

fighting craft best adapted to the Atlantic. It can dive quickly and has greatmobility. Its range of operations is 7,900 nautical miles on the surface at 10knots,6,500nauticalmilesat12knots.Submerged,80nauticalmilesat4knots.Themaximumspeedis17.3knotsonthesurfaceand7.6knotssubmerged.“Hegotitinthesterntoo.Rammedbyasinkingsteamer!”theChiefyellsin

myear.Hereand there Jupiter lamps standon tripods.Plates thathavebeendented

are being hammered into shape again by a crowd of dockyard workers. Notserious:thisisonlyapartoftheouterskin,whichisnotpressure-resistant.Of the true cylindrical core of the ship, the pressure hull, only a portion is

visibleamidships.Towardsternandbowthishulliscoveredbyathinouterskin,whichcamouflagestheinflateddeep-seafishasalow-lyingsurfacevesselwhenitcomesupforair.Alongtheentirelengthoftheboattheouterskinispiercedby holes and slits for flooding so that water can penetrate into the spacesbetween it and the real pressure hull. Otherwise the light disguise would becrushedlikeacardboardboxbytheweightofthewaterpressingonit.Theweightoftheboatcanbepreciselycontrolledwiththetrimtanksandthe

ballast tanks.Throughasystemofcellsplacedpartlyoutsideandpartly insidethe pressure hull, the boat can be raised high enough in thewater for surfaceoperation.Thefueltanksalsolieoutsidethepressurehull.On the underside of one of the ballast tanks I catch sight of the flooding

hatches,whichstayopenwhentheboatisonthesurface.Theballasttanks,likeaircushions,keeptheboatfloating.Iftheairescapesthroughthevalvesinthetop of the tanks, the water can rush in through the flooding hatches. The liftdisappears,theboatdives.Iletmyeyesroamalongtheboat:thethickbulgeisthefueloiltank.Thehole

overthereisthecold-waterintakeforthediesels.Somewhereheremustbethesubmersioncells.Theyarepressureresistant,asarethetrimcellsandtheballasttanks.Aworkerbeginstohammerfuriouslyatsomerivetheads.The Commander has gone farther toward the stern. He points upward: the

boat’spropellersarecompletelyconcealedbywoodenscaffolding.“Hereallygotit,”saystheOldMan.“Propeller shafts—getting—new lignum vitae bearings,” roars the Chief.

“Probablymakingnoise—depthbombpursuit.”

Directlyabove thepropellers, thecover for the stern torpedo tube.Halfwayup, theflatsurfacesof thesternhydroplanesgrowoutof thecurveof thesidelikestuntedairplanewings.Aworkmanspatteredwithpaintfromheadtofootalmostknocksmeover.He

hasanenormousbrushonanextra-longbroomhandle.While I’mwaiting fortheOldMan,hebeginstopaintthebellyoftheboatdarkgrayfromunderneath.When we reach flooded Pen Six, the Commander once more turns aside

towardtheboatmooredattherightofthepier.“Here’stheboatthattookadirecthitfromaplane—Kramer’s!”Kramer’sstoryisstillinmyears.“Justaswe’regettingtothesurfaceIseea

plane.Thebombdoorsopen,downcomesthebombstraightatthebridge.Ijerkmyshoulderbackforfearthebombwillhitit.Thethingactuallycrashesintothebulwark of the bridge—but a little bit askew, not head on. And instead ofblowingup,itjustfliestobits.Adud.”TheCommanderinspectstheconningtowerfromforwardandaft,thebizarre

stripofrolled-upmetal that thebombhas tornfromthecoveringof the tower,the broken cutwater. A sentry from the boat, bundled up against the cold,advancesandsalutes.“By rights, he should have been flying around in a white nightgown for a

goodweekalready,”saystheChief.ThebasinofPenEight isalsoflooded.Reflectionsshiverand intertwineon

thesurface.“Ourboat,”saystheChief.Inthesemi-darknessofthebunkerthehullishardlydistinguishablefromthe

water.Butagainstthepalewalltheoutlinesrisingabovethelowpieraremoreclearly defined. The upper deck lies only a bare yard over the oily brackishwater.Allthehatchesarestillopen.Iexploretheentirelengthoftheboatwithmyeyesasthoughtoimprint itonmymindforall time:theflatwoodendeckthatreachesforwardinoneuninterruptedsweeptothebow;theconningtowerwith its squat, bristling, anti-aircraft guns; the gently sloping stern; the steelcablesofthenetguardswiththeirinterlacedgreenporcelaininsulatorsslantingforwardandaftfromtheconningtower.Everythingoftheutmostsimplicity.AVII-Cboat,themostseaworthyofships.IcatchacrookedgrinontheCommander’sface,likeanownerbeforeahorse

race.

Theboatisreadyforsea.Itstanksarefilledwithfueloilandwater—clearedfordeparture.Andyetitisn’tthrobbingwiththequivering,high-pitchedhumofashipreadytosail;thedieselsaren’tyetrunning,althoughthewharfcrewwiththeirheavyglovesstandreadywiththehawsers.“Theofficialfarewelltakesplaceinthechannel,”saystheCommander.“With

alltheidiocythatgoeswithit.”Thecrewisdrawnupontheupperdeckbehindthetower.Exactlyfiftymen.

(Andme.)Eighteen-,nineteen-,andtwenty-yearolds.Onlytheofficersandpettyofficersareafewyearsolder.Inthesemi-darknessIcan’treallymakeouttheirfaces.Rollisbeingcalled,

buttheirclearlyenunciatednamesescapeme.The upper deck is slippery from the fog that pours in through the bunker

gates.Thegrayishmistywhite is sodazzling that theoutlines of the exits areindistinct.Thewaterinthebasinisalmostblackandlooksasturgidasoil.TheFirstWatchOfficerreports,“Allhandspresentandaccountedforexcept

control-room assistant Backer. Engine room ready, upper and lower decksclearedfordeparture!”“Thanks.HeilUA!”“Heil, Herr Kaleun!” resounds throughout the pen above the wailing of

machinery.“Eyesfront!Atease!”TheCommanderwaitsuntiltheshufflinghassubsided.“YouknowthatBacker’shadit.BombingraidonMagdeburg.Agoodman—

whatamess.Andnotevenasinglescoreonhislastcruise.”Longpause.TheOldManlooksdisgusted.“All right then—not our fault. But let’smake surewe do things better this

time.Buckup.”Grins.“Dismissed!”“Afinespeech,”theChiefmurmurs.“Myrespects!”On the long, narrow upper-deck, fenders, cables, and new hawsers are still

lying about. Warm steam pours out of the open galley hatch. Cookie’s faceappears.Ihandmythingsdowntohim.

Noiselessly the periscope rises. Polyphemus eye turning in all directions, itrises to full height on its gleaming silvery mast, then sinks down again anddisappears.Iclimbontotheconningtower.Thepaintisnotyetentirelydryandcomes off on the palms ofmy hands. The torpedo supply hatch on the upperdeckisalreadyclosed.Aft,thegalleyhatchisnowsealed.Thesingleremainingentrancetotheboatistheconningtowerhatch.Below,disorderreigns.Onecanmovenowherewithoutpushingandshoving.

Hammocks bulgingwith loaves of bread swing to and fro. Everywhere in thepassagesboxesofprovisions,pilesofcannedfood,sacks.Whereisallthisstufftobestowed?Thelastinchofspaceisalreadyfull.The designers of our boat have dispensed with the storage rooms that on

surfacevesselsarenormallymanyandcapacious—justas theyhavedispensedwithwashrooms.Theyhavesimplybuilt theirmachines into thiswar tubeandhavepersuadedthemselvesthat,giventhemostsophisticateddeploymentofthejungleofpipesandhugepropulsionengines,therewouldnecessarilybeenoughnooksandcranniesleftoverforthecrew.Theboat has takenon fourteen torpedoes. Five are in the tubes, two in the

upper-decktorpedoholders,andtheremainderunder thefloorplates—bothaftand in the bow compartment. In addition, 120 shells for the 8.8 millimetercannonandaquantityofanti-aircraftammunition.Thenavigationofficerand thebosun—NumberOne, innautical language—

havetheirhandsfull.NumberOneisapowerfulfellowcalledBehrmann,whotowersbyaheadovermostofthecrew.Ialreadyknowhim:“Youbright-eyedlittlefawn,I’llgetyou…”Still a half hour to sailing. I have enough time to take a look around the

enginerooms—anoldloveofmine,theengineroomsofshipsclearedforsea.InthecontrolroomIsitdownforamomentonthewaterdistributor.Allaroundmepipes, ventilators, hand wheels, manometers, auxiliary engines, the confusedtangleofintertwinedgreenandredelectricalconnections.Inthehalf-darknessIrecognizethehydroplane-positionindicators,oneelectricalandonemechanical—almostallthesystemsareduplicated,forsafety.Abovethehydroplanestationwithitspush-buttoncontrolsforelectricalunderwatersteering,Icanjustmakeout the trimming scales, one approximate and one exact. The Papenberg—adepth indicator between the round dials of the depth manometers with theirclocklikehands—lookslikeahugethermometer.Duringprecisemaneuveringitshowsthedepthforperiscopicobservationtowithinthreeinches.

The control room has pressure-resistant hatches fore and aft that canwithstandgreaterpressurebecauseoftheirhalf-sphericalshape.Theboatcanbedividedintothreecompartmentsbythesetwohatches.There is not much advantage for us in this, for if one of the three

compartments is flooded, the boat is no longer able to float. The designersprobablyhadshallowwatersinmind,likethoseoftheBaltic.Theforwardcompartmenthasthetorpedosupplyhatchastheemergencyexit,

theaftercompartmenthasthegalleyhatch.Theengineroom—mygoal—liesaftofthegalley.Alldoorshavebeenopened.Ipainfullyworkmywayaftoverchestsandsacksthroughthepettyofficers’

quarters,whereIamtosleep,andonthroughthegalley,whichhasnotyetbeenclearedupeither.Ourengine roomcannotcomparewith theengine roomsofbigships, those

loftyhallsusuallyextendingfromthetoptothebottomofthewholecraft,withtheir many stages of gratings and stairways glistening with oil, leading fromstorytostoryinalusterofpolishedcopperandshimmeringsteelbeams.Ours,onthecontrary,isanarrowcaveinwhichthetwomightydieselswithalltheirauxiliary machines have to crouch like cowering animals. Around them, nosmall corner amid thewelter of pipes is unused; there are cold-water pumps,lubricationpumps,oilseparators,compressed-airstartingcylinders,fuelpumps.In between are the manometers, thermometers, oscillation gauges, and everypossiblekindofindicator.Each of the two diesels has six cylinders. Together they develop 2,800

horsepower.Whenthehatchesaresealed,thepublicaddresssystemistheonlylinkwith

thecontrolroom.Duringbattle, thefloorhere in thenarrowgangwaybetweenthe mighty diesels is especially tricky, for the diesel room holds most of theoutboardplugs,themostvulnerablepointsinthepressurehull.Thetwomastermechanicsarestillhardatwork.Johannisatall,quiet,very

pale,high-cheekedfellowwhoalwayslookscalmandresigned;hehaswretchedposture,isblondandalmostbeardless.Theother,Franz,issquare,dark,andhasabeard.Hetooisachalkcolor,andstoops.Helooksbad-tempered.AtfirstIassumedthattheywerebothcalledbytheirfirstnames.NowIknow

that Johann and Franz are family names. Johann’s first name is August, and

Franz’sisKarl.Fartheraftisthemotorroom.TheE-motorsarerunbybatteries,whichinturn

are charged by the diesels. The E-motors develop 750 horsepower. Hereeverythingisasclean,cold,andhiddenasinapowerstation.Thehousingofthemotorsrisesonlyalittleabovethegleamingsilveryfloor

plates. On both sides of the switching boxes are black signs and a mass ofamperemeters, output gauges, andvoltage controls.Themotorsworkwithoutdrawing any air from outside. They are direct-currentmachines which duringunderwaternavigationareattacheddirectly,withoutgears, tothedrivingshaftsbehindthediesels.Duringsurfaceoperations,whenthedieselsarerunning,theyalsoserveasdynamostochargethebatteries.Attheafterendoftheroomisthefloor breach-lock of the rear torpedo tube. Left and right of it stand the twocompressors,whichsupplythecompressedairforemptyingthedivingtanks.

I wrestle my way back into the control room and clamber up through thehatch.InlinewiththesternpostourboatisbeingdrawnoutofthebunkerbyitsE-

motorsandemergesintoamother-of-pearlbrightnessthatmakesthedampdeckshimmer likeglass.TheTyphon,our signalhorn,emitsahollowgroan.Once,twice.Atugrepliesonanevendeepernote.In the diffused foggy light I see it glide by as if itwere a black cardboard

cutout.Asecondtug,heavyandpowerful,pushesbysocloseIcanmakeouttheline of automobile tires itwears as fenders, thewayViking longboats carriedtheir shields. A stoker sticks his ruddy face out of a porthole and shoutssomethingtous,butinthesuddenhowlofourTyphon,Ican’tunderstandhim.TheCommanderhimselfisgivingengineandrudderorders.Hehaspropped

himselfupwellabovethebulwarkofthebridgesothathecansurveytheboatfrombowtosternforthedifficultmaneuveringthroughtheharbornarrows.“Portenginestop!Starboardengineslowahead!Rudderhardtoport!”Cautiouslytheboatswingsyardbyyardintothemist.It’sstillcold.Ourpointedbowsweepspastarowofvesselslyingclosetogether.Smallfry

—harbordefensecraft,apatrolboatamongthem.Theharborwaterstinksmoreandmoreoftarandrefuseandseaweed.

Overthefogbanksnow,individualsteamermastsbegintoappear,followedbyamassofderricks.TheblackfiligreeofthecranesremindsmeofrigsinanoilfieldWorkmen making their way to the wharf along a suspension bridge are

concealeduptotheneckbyitsrustybrownside:aprocessionofseveredheads.In the east above the pale gray of the cold-storage plants, a reddish gleam

gradually blends with the milky mist. A great block of buildings slips veryslowlyaside.Suddenlythroughtheframeworkofacranethesharplyincisedballofthesunblazesout—onlyforaninstant, thenoveritsweepsapuffofgreasysmokefromatugtowingbargesfilledwithblacksandandcoal.Ishudderinthedampwindandholdmybreath,soasnottogettoomuchof

thesuffocatingvaporintomylungs.Onthechannelwallacrowdhasassembled:harborworkmeninoil-smeared

overalls, sailors, a few officers of the flotilla. I recognizeGregor,whowasn’ttherelastnight,Kortmann,theSiamesetwinsKupschandStackmann.Trumannis there too, of course, looking completely normal; no traces of last night’sdrunk.BehindhimInoticeBechtel,heof thedepthchargeon theupperdeck,and Kramer, of the aircraft bomb. Even the swaggerer Erler has turned up,surroundedbyacrowdofgirlscarryingflowers.ButnoThomsen.“Justletmecatchsightofthatgoddamdumbcarbolicwhore,”Ihearfroma

seamanbesidemewhoiscoilingupastreamcable.“Boy,thosebitchesarecrazy!”Ihearfromanotherone.“Thethirdfromtheleft,thelittleone,Ilaidher!”“Bullshit!”“Wordofhonor.It’strue.”Toport,nearthestern,asuddensurgeofwater.Wavesoffoamdancearound

theboat.BuoyancyCellOneisbeingblownoutuntilitiscompletelyfilledwithair.Amomentlater,waterspurtsupfoamingalongthesides:onecellaftertheotherisbeingblown—ourupperdeckriseshigherabovethewater.Anartillerymanfromaboveshouts,“Ashipthissize!”andstretchesouthis

arms like a fisherman bragging about his catch; one of ourmen on the upperdecksticksouthis tongue.Avarietyof insults,grins,funnyfaces.All ingoodhumor—butthatwon’tlast.Now it’s really time to cast off. Commander, officers, and all the crew are

aboard.ForBacker,theonewhogotitinMagdeburg,there’sasubstitute:apale,

spindlyeighteen-year-old.Hightideanhourago.Weshouldgetthroughsmoothly.Ourcrewontheupperdeckactoutthestandardfarce—howwonderfultobe

onourwayatlast!Andtheonesleftonthepierpretendthey’redyingofenvy.You’reoffonthissplendidcruise!Yougettoseeenemyactionandgraballthemedals,whilewepoorbastardsarestuckhere inshittyFrancefriggingaroundwithshittywhores!I straighten up in my still stiff leather clothes. There I stand, hands

belligerently thrust into the pockets of my felt-lined jacket—it reaches tomyknees.Istampupanddownonthegratinginmyheavybootswhicharecork-soledagainsttheicychilloftheiron.TheOldManisgrinning.“Impatient?”Themeninthemilitarybandwiththeirsteelhelmetslookatusblankly.A slovenly bassoonist in the second row is licking the mouthpiece of his

instrumentforthefifthtime,asthoughitwerealollipop.Whenhehascompletelylickedawayhisbassoon,onesecondofeternitywill

have…Thejackbootedbandmasterraiseshisbatonandthebrassesblareout;another

secondandalltalkisdrownedinthescreechingimpactofthemusic.Thetwogangplankshavebeenhauledin.Thefirstwatchhastakenupmaneuverstations.Theoff-dutywatchremains

ontheupperdeck.TheFirstWatchOfficerwhistlestocastoff.TheCommanderactsas thoughnoneof thisconcernshim in theslightest,andpuffsawayonathick cigar. Up on the pier Trumann has also lit one. They salute each other,cigarsbetweenindexandmiddlefingers.TheFirstWatchOfficerlooksawayinirritation.“Where’sMerkel?”theOldManaskswhenthebandstopsplaying,gesturing

towardthepier.“Notyetclearedforsea.”“Ach,shameful!”TheOldMan squints at the sky, thenwraps himself in an especially heavy

cloudofsmoke,likeasteamtug.“Castoffalllinesexceptmooringcables!”

Hawsersforeandaftarecastoffbysoldiersonthepier.Themenontheupperdeck haul them in, working smoothly together. The result of seven earlierpatrols.“Port engine dead slow ahead, starboard engine slow astern! Both engines

stop—midships!”Nowthemooringcablesplashesintothewater.Ourfendersglidealongtheroundedbellyoftheouterbunker.Thebubbling

gurgleofwaterfromthepropellersmakesmelooktowardthestern.Theboathasfreeditselffromthepier,adismalferryonanoilyblackStyx,

with a cargo of leather-armored men on the antiaircraft platform behind thecircularenclosureofourbridge.Noexhaustvisible,noenginenoise.Asthoughbyamagnet,theboatisdrawnawayfromthepier.Smallbouquetsof flowers fallonto thebridge.Membersof thewatch stick

themintotheventilationducts.Thedarkstripofwaterbetweenthegraysteeloftheboatandtheoil-smeared

wallofthepierkeepswidening.Nowthereisacommotioninthecrowdonthepier. Someone is forcing his way through from behind, parting the mob:Thomsen!Hestretchesbothhandsintheair,hisnewdecorationglitteringonitsneckband, and roars across the brackish water, “Heil UA!” And again, “HeilUA!”Withanindifferenceuniquelyhis,theOldManwaveshiscigar.Theboatismakingitswayslowlyintothemistyouterbasinandthehorizon

expands.Thebowpointstowardtheopensea.

Graduallythesmokymistliftsfromthewater.Ontheblackirongirdersofacrane the sun climbs higher. Its brilliant red fills the whole eastern sky. Theedges of the clouds are dappled with red foam. Even the seagulls catch thesplendor.With foldedwings they fall through the glowing light almost to thewaterandatthelastinstantswingupward,screechingwildly.Thecloudsofmistdissipatecompletelyandtheoilywaterburnsintheglare.

A floatingcranequite close tous emits agigantic cloudof steam that the suninstantlystainsredandorange.Besideit,eventheredBYRRHsignlookspale.

Quickly the sky becomes green-yellow and the clouds take on a dull dove-gray.Agreenwreck-buoyslidespast.Lookingtostarboard,Isee theredroofsof

the bathing huts crowded together and slowly sinking behind the gleamingyellowderricks.All of a sudden a high choking sound. Then comes a harsh singing and

rumbling.Thedeckbeginstoshake.Therumblinggrowslouderandtakesonaregularrhythm:ourdieselshavestarted.Iputmyhandsonthecoldironofthebridgebulwarkandfeelthepulsingof

themachinery.The sea is running against us. Short, choppy waves break against the

buoyancytanks.Theheadofthebreakwatermovespastandrecedes.Afreighterslipsby,camouflagedgreen,gray,black.“About six thousand tons!” says theCommander.Nowave at the bow; the

freighterislyingatanchor.Our routenowrunssoclose to thecoast thatwecanseeall the landmarks.

Soldierswaveatus.Wemoveatthespeedofaslowcyclist.“Clearupperdecktodive!”theCommanderorders.Thebollardstowhichthelineshadbeenmadefastretract,theboathooksare

lashed down, the lines and fenders stowed in spaces under the gratings. Theseamen push home and lock all the openings on the upper deck, bring in theflagpole,clearthemachineguns,layouttheammunition.NumberOnewatcheswithasharpeyetoseethateverythingisdoneproperly;

duringsilentruntheremustbenonoise.TheFirstWatchOfficerrechecks,thenreportstotheCommander,“Upperdeckclearedfordiving!”TheCommanderordersincreasedspeed.Betweenthegratings,foamboilsup

andspraystrikesthetower.The rocky coast recedes behind us.Dark shadows still lie in its clefts. The

anti-aircraft installationshavebeen sowell camouflaged that I canhardly findthem,evenwithbinoculars.Two patrol boats—-rebuilt trawlers—join our boat to provide anti-aircraft

protection.

Afterawhileaminesweeper turnsup toaccompanyus,abigcamouflagedshipstuffedfullofbarrelsandotherhighlybuoyantcargo.Itsupperdeckbristleswithanti-aircraftguns.“What a job,” says the navigator. “They go around on trampolines so their

boneswon’tbebrokenifaminejusthappenstogooff.Everydaythesamething—out—in…Thanks,butnothanks!”Ourboatstayspreciselyinthemiddleofthebroadbubblingwakeofthemine

sweeper.IgetthelongbayofLaBauleinmyglasses:athickrowofdollhouses.ThenI

turntowardthestern.SaintNazaireisnowathinstreak,withthetallcranesnomorethanpinsoutlinedagainstthesky.“Complicatedchannelhere.Allsortsofwreckslyingaround—look!—tipsof

masts!ThatwasanAllied transportsunkbyStukas,abombstraightdownthefunnel.It’sexposedatlowtide.There’sanotherone.Thethinginfrontofitisalight-buoy.”Whenhardlyanythingmorethanthenorthshoreoftheestuarycanbeseen,

the navigator orders the optical bearing-finder brought up. He places theapparatusonitsstandandbendsoverit.“Hey,moveover!”Theguardonthestarboarddeckaftmovesover.“What’syourlandmark?”theCommanderinquires.“Tipof thechurch steeple there—youcanhardly see it—and the topof the

rockstostarboard.”Thenavigator sights carefully, readsoff thenumbers, andcalls themdown.

“Lastlandmark,”hesays.

Wehavenoharborasdestination.Thegoalthatdrawsusfromourbaseoutintotheexpanseoftheoceanisasquaredesignatedbytwonumbersonthemapofthemid-Atlantic.The Operations Division of U-boat Headquarters has divided up the ocean

into amosaicof these small squares.This simplifies exchangeof information,but itmakes ithard forme, accustomed to theusual coordinates, to recognizeourpositionataglanceonthemap.

Ateleveno’clocktheescortisdismissed.Thepatrolboatsfallrapidlyastern.The mine sweeper swings away in a wide curve and unfuris a dark, broad-flowingsmokebanneragainstthesky.Alastwaveoffarewell.Nowthenavigatordeterminedlyturnsforwardwithhiswholebody,holdsthe

binocularstohiseyes,andpropshiselbowsonthebulwark.“Well,Kriechbaum,herewegoagain!”saystheCommanderanddisappears

downintotheconningtower.Theboatisnowaloneonitscourse.One of the bridge guards pulls the flowers out of the ventilation ducts and

throwsthemoverboard.Theyquicklydriftasternintheswirlingwake.I propmyself up high, in order to see the boat frombow to stern over the

bridgebulwark.Alonggroundswelliscomingtowardus.Againandagainthebowdipsand

splits the waves like a plow. Each time, water shoots up foaming, and sharpshowers hiss across the bridge. If I run my tongue over my lips I taste theAtlantic—salty.Inthebluevaultoftheskyhangafewstratocumuluscloudslikethefoamof

beateneggwhites.Thebowdescends, riseshighagain, crashesdown,and thewholeforwarddeckiscoveredforminutesatatimewithfoam.Thesunbringsout thecolorsof thespectrumin thewaterymist; little rainbowsarchover thebow.Theseaisnolongerbottle-greenbutadeepdark-blue.Thinwhitestreaksof

foamrunirregularlyalongthebluesurfacelikeveinsofmarble.Whenawadofcloudmovesinfrontofthesunthewaterturnstoblue-blackink.Astern,abroadpathofmilkywaters;ourwide, roilingwakedashesagainst

thegroundswellandshootsupinwhitemanes.Thesegleamingtressesextendasfarastheeyecansee.ProppingmyfeetagainsttheperiscopehousingIclimbalittlehigheroutof

thebridge and leanback, supportingmyarmson thenet guard.Seagullswithbentswordlikewingsshootaroundtheboatandwatchuswithstonyeyes.Thenoiseofthedieselsaltersconstantly;itebbsawaywhentheexhaustvents

oneithersideof theboataresubmergedinthesea, thenriseswhentheycomefreeandthegascanescapeunhindered.The Commander returns to the deck, narrows his eyes, and raises his

binoculars.

Ahead,acloudlikeagrayfleecehangsoverthewater.TheCommandereyesitsharply.Hecompensatessopreciselywithhiskneesforthemotionoftheboatthathehasnoneedofahandhold.“Hightimeweputtoseaagain!”TheCommanderincreasesspeedandordersazigzagcourse.Ateachchange

ofdirectiontheboatheelstooneside.Thewaketwiststoright,thenleft.“Lookoutforbubbletracks—thisarea—veryrisky!”andthenturningtome:

“Thegentlemenoftheotherfirmareaccustomedtolieinwaitforushere.Afterall, theyknowexactlywhenwecastoff.Notmuchofa trick—theycaneasilyfindout.Fromtheharborworkers,fromthecleaningwomen—fromthewhores.What’smore,theycanpeekinthemselveswhilewe’redocked.”Again and again the Commander glances distrustfully toward the sky.

Washboard wrinkles in his forehead, his nose twisted to one side, he shiftsimpatiently from one foot to the other. “Any minute now the flyers couldsurpriseus.They’regettingbolderallthetime!”Thecloudsgraduallydrawclosertogether.Onlynowandthendoesapieceof

blueskyshinethrough.“Veryriskyindeed,”theOldManrepeats,andmurmursunderhisbinoculars,

“Bettergetbelow justnow.When there’sanalarm—asfewpeopleondeckaspossible.”Thatmeansme.Idisappearpromptlyfromthebridge.

My bunk is in the petty officers’ quarters, the U-room, the mostuncomfortableonboard: ithas themost through traffic.Anyonewhowants togettothegalley,ortothedieselsortheE-motors,hastocomethroughhere.Atevery change of watch the men from the engine room squeeze through fromastern,andthenewwatchcomesthroughfromthecontrolroom.Thatmeanssixmen each time.And the stewards have towork their way past with their fulldishesandpots.Infact,thewholeplaceisnothingmorethananarrowcorridorwithfourbunksontherightandfourontheleft.Inthemiddleofthepassage,screwedtothefloor,there’satablewithfoldingleaves.Thespaceonbothsidesissonarrowthatatmealtimesthemenhavetositonthelowerbunkswiththeirheads bent. There is far too little space for stools. And there is muss and

confusionwheneversomeonehastogetfromtheenginestothecontrolroomorviceversaduringameal.Mealsaresoarrangedthattheofficersandthecrewarealreadyfinishedinthe

forwardcompartmentswhenthepettyofficerscrowdaroundtheirowntable—sothestewardsdon’tthenhavetogobackandforthbetweenthebowcompartmentandthegalley.Neverthelessthereisconstantdisturbance.It’smygoodluckthatIdon’thavetoeatintheU-room;aplaceislaidformeintheOfficers’Mess.Someofthebunksareusedbytwopettyofficersinrotation.Iamthehappy

possessorofabunkalltomyself.The petty officers from the off-duty watch are still busy arranging their

lockers.Twomengoingtotheengineroomhavetogetthroughtothestern,andthere’samix-uprightaway.Mybunkerrail,akindofnarrowaluminumladder,hascomedown,whichaddstotheconfusion.Mybunkisstillcoveredwithcannedfood,abundleoffur-linedjerkins,and

someloavesofbread.Aseamanbringsoilskins,leatherclothing,seaboots,andrescuegear.Thelinedleatherjacketisstilluncreased.Thebootsarelinedwithfelt,butarebigenoughtowearoverheavysocks.The rescue gear is in a dark-brown sailcloth bagwith a zipper.Brand new.

“Puredecoration,”saysthecontrol-roommate,“reallymeantfortheBaltic!”“Butveryusefulwhenthedieselstinks,”saysabigdark-hairedfellowwith

bushy eyebrows:Frenssen, the dieselmechanicmate.Nevertheless, the rescuegear has its use; if I turn the nozzle slightly, the little steel flask immediatelyemitsoxygen.Istowthebrownbagatthefootofmybunk.FormypossessionsIhaveatiny

locker,notevenbigenoughtoholdtheabsolutenecessities.SoIputmywritingmaterialsandcamera in thebunkbetween the lightmattressand thewall. Justenoughspaceremainsformybody—it’slikebeinginasuitcase.IwanttolookaroundalittlebeforethenoonmealandIgoforwardthroughthecontrolroom.Asidefromthepettyofficers,therestofthecrew,includingtheCommander

and officers, sleep in the foreship. The Commander lives directly beyond thecontrol-roomhatch.Behindagreencurtainthere’sabunk,acoupleoflockersonthewallandceiling,andaverysmallwritingtable,reallyonlyawritingboard—andthat’sit.Hetoohastomakeoutasbesthecan.Closedroomsoneithersideofthepassageway,suchasyoufindinsurfacevessels,don’texist.OppositetheCommander’s“room”aretheradioshackandthesoundroom.

Farther forward is theOfficers’Mess—thewardroom,which also serves aslivingquartersfortheChief,theapprenticeengineer(ourSecondEngineer),andtheFirstandSecondWatchOfficers.The mattress on which our Commander and the Chief sit at mealtimes is

reallytheChief’sbunk.Therailroadberthaboveitisfoldedupduringtheday;it’stheSecondWatchOfficer’sberth.TheberthsoftheFirstWatchOfficerandtheSecondEngineeraremorefavorablyplacedontheoppositewall.Sincethesedon’thavetobeputawayduringtheday,theFirstWatchOfficerandtheSecondEngineercanstretchoutduringtheirfreetime.Thetable,screwedfasttothefloor,isonthesideawayfromthepassage.It’s

designed for four: the Commander, the Chief, and the two Watch Officers.However,sixofuswillbeeatingthere.In the adjoining compartment, theQuarters,which is separated from the 0-

Messsimplybylockers,livethenavigatorKriechbaum,thetwochiefmechanicsJohannandFranz,andthebosunBehrmann.UnderthefloorplatesliesBatteryOne,whichtogetherwithBatteryTwoundertheU-roomsuppliestheenergyforrunningunderwater.The bow compartment is separated from the Quarters by a non-pressure-

resistant hatch. Despite its cavelike appearance, the bow compartment is theclosest thingwe have to a room. Strictly speaking, it is a combinationwork-storagespacefortorpedoesandabattlestation.“Torpedoroom”isthereforeanaccuratedesignation.Herelivemostofthecrew.Oneachsidearesixberths,twoby two, one above the other. In them the sailors, or “lords,” sleep, plus thetorpedomen,theradioman,andthestokers.Because they stand six-hourwatches, two stokers share each bunk. For the

otherswhogoonwatchintrios,therearetwobunksforeverythreemen.Noonehas a bunk to himself.When a sailor gets up to begin hiswatch, theman herelievesliesdowninthestaleairhe’sleftbehind.Nevertheless,therestillaren’tenoughbunks;fourhammocksdanglefromtheceiling.Themenoff-dutyrarelystayundisturbed.Duringmealtimestheyallhaveto

getup.Theupperberthshavetobesnappedshutandtheloweronesclearedsothatthe“lords”cansitdownonthem.Whenthetorpedoesinthefourbowtubesare being “adjusted,” the room is transformed into amachine shop. Then thebunksaretakendownandthehammocksstowedaway.Thereservetorpedoesfortheforwardtubesarestowedundertheraisedfloor

plates.Untiltheyareloaded,thelackofspacewillbepainful.Soforthemenin

thebowcompartment,everytorpedofiredmeansaddedfreedomofmotion.Buttheydohaveatleastoneadvantage:nothroughtraffic.Rightnowtheplace looks likeadevastatedarsenal: leatherclothing, rescue

gear, sweaters, sacks of potatoes, teapots, uncoiled rope, loaves of bread…Unimaginable that all thiswill disappear tomake room for twenty-six seamenandthetorpedomechanic,whoistheonlypettyofficernotlivingintheU-room.It looks as if everything they couldn’t find space for right away has been

shovedinhere.JustasIappear,thebosunisurgingtwoseamenon.“Hurryup—the lettuce crate between the torpedo tubes! Lettuce! You’d think this was afuckinggrocerystore!”Thebosunpointsoutthenarrownessoftheshipasifitisaspecialattraction.

Heactsas thoughitwereallhisownidea.“It’samatterofgiveandtake,”hesays.“Theheads,forexample:therearetwoofthem,butwehavetouseoneforprovisions,sothere’smorespaceforfoodandlessforshitting!Youtrytomakesenseoutofit!”In all the compartments, thick bundles of cables and pipes run under the

floors. If you open a locker door, more of them are revealed—as if thewoodworkwereonlyaprettyveneeroverthetechnologicalmaze.

At lunchIhave tositona foldingchair in thegangwaynext to theSecondWatch Officer. The Commander and the Chief are on the “leather sofa,” theChief’sbunk.TheapprenticeengineerandtheFirstWatchOfficersitattheendsofthetable.Ifsomeonewantstogetthrough,theSecondWatchOfficerandIeitherhave

togetupor jamourstomachsagainst the tableandbendoverso that themancanwrigglepast.Standingupisthelesserevil,aswequicklydiscover.The Commander wears a disreputable sweater of indefinable color. He has

changed his blue-gray shirt for a red-checked one, its collar showing over hissweater.Whilethestewardisserving,hesitswithfoldedarms,leaningbackinhis corner and occasionally inspecting the ceiling as though fascinated by theveinsinthewood.Theapprenticeengineerisafulllieutenant,newonboard.He’storeplacethe

Chief after this patrol.A blondNorthGermanwith a broad, rather square-cut

face.Whileweeat,Iseelittleofhimexcepthisprofile.Helookstoneitherrightnorleftanddoesn’tutterasound.TheChief sits oppositeme.When you see him next to theCommander he

lookseventhinnerandmorehaggardthanhereallyis:asharp,curvednosethatshowsthebone,blackhaircombedbackflat.Hisrecedinghairlinegiveshimarealthinker’sforehead.Verydarkeyes.Prominentcheekbonesandtemples.Fulllipsbuta firmchin.Themencallhim“Rasputin,”mainlybecausehegoesontending his pointed black beard with devotion and patience long after everypatrol,untilfinallymakinguphismindtoshaveitoffandrinseitawaywiththelather.He’s been on board since the boat’s first patrol and is the second most

importantmanhere,theundisputedrulerofalltechnicalmatters.Hisdomainiscompletely separate from that of the sea officers; his fighting station is thecontrolroom.“TheChief’s first-rate,” says theOldMan. “He keeps a steady course and

that’s what counts. Does it by feel. The new man will never be able to. Hesimplydoesn’thaveitinhisfingertips.Youcan’tdoitjustbyknowingthings.Youhavetosensethereactionof theboatandactbeforeaparticular tendencycantakeeffect.Amatterofexperienceandfeeling!Noteveryonecandoit.Notsomethingthatcanbelearned…”AshesitstherebesidetheOldMan,withhissmalllivelyhands,hisdreamy

eyes,hislong,darkhair,Icanimaginehiminallkindsofroles:acroupieroracrap-shooter, aviolinist or amovie actor.Hisbuild is almost thatof adancer.Insteadofbootshewears light sport shoes, insteadof thecumbersomeU-boatclothing a kind of overalls, like a gym outfit. Getting through the circularhatches is easier forhim than for anyone else. “He slips through theboat likeoil,”Iheardthecontrol-roommateremarkthismorning.FromtheOldManIknowthattheChiefisunflappable,forallhisracehorse

nervousness.Whilewewere in harbor hewas seldom at the flotillamess.Hewasonboardfrommorningtillnightbusyinghimselfwiththesmallestdetails.“On this boat not somuch as awooden screw goes inwithout theChief’s

supervision.Hehasnoconfidenceinshipyardworkmen.”On account of his small stature, the SecondWatchOfficer is known to the

crewas“theGardenGnome”or“theBabyOfficer.”IhaveknownhimandtheOldManand theChief forquiteawhile.TheSecondWatchOfficer is justasconscientiousas theChief.Healways looksalert—almost sly. Ifyou speak to

him, his face soon crinkles into laughter. “He stands firm on his hind legs ondeck,” says theOldMan.The skipper sleeps soundlywhen theSecondWatchOfficerisonduty.TheFirstWatchOfficerhasbeenoutonpatrolonlyoncebefore.Ihardlyever

sawhiminthemessduringourtimeinport.TowardbothhimandtheSecondEngineer, the Commander’smanner is strained—either noticeably reserved orexaggeratedlyfriendly.IncontrasttotheSecondWatchOfficer,theFirstWatchOfficerisagangling,

pale, colorless type with a frozen sheepface. No real self-possession orassurance, sohe’s always trying to appearquick anddecisive. I soondiscoverthatheobeysordersbuthasnoinitiativeorcommonsense.Theupperportionsof his ears are strangely undeveloped and the lobes lie close to his head.Hisnostrils are flat.Hiswhole face looks unfinished.Also he has an unattractivewayofglancingdisapprovinglyoutofthecornerofhiseye,withoutmovinghishead,WhentheOldManproducesoneofhislittlejokes,hesmilessourly.IfwehavetoputtoseawithnothingbutschoolboysandsuperannuatedHitler

Youths, things must be getting pretty bad,” the Old M an had murmured tohimselfintheBarRoyal,nodoubtwiththeFirstWatchOfficerinmind.“Cupsover here!” theCommandernowdirects, andpours tea for all of us,

There’snolongerroomforthehotteapotonthetable.Ihavetoholditbetweenmykneesandbendoverittogetatmyfood.Damnhot!Icanbarelystandit.TheCommander sipswithvisible enjoyment.He forceshimself farther and

fartherintothecorneranddrawsuponekneesothathecanbraceitagainstthetable. Then with a slight nod he looks around at us, exactly like a contentedfatherwithhisbrood.Hiseyessparklewithmischief.Hismouthwidens:theSecondWatchOfficer

hastogetupagain.Iofcoursehavetogetuptoo,alongwiththeteapot,becauseCookiewantstogoforwardthroughthepassage.Thecookisavigorous,shortishfellowwithaneckaswideashishead.He

grinsatmetrustingly,fromeartoear.Isuspectthathe’scomethroughthemessrightnowtobecongratulatedonhisfood.“I’lltellyouastoryabouthimsometime!”theOldMansays,chewing,asthe

cookdeparts.Crackling in the loudspeaker. A voice comes on. “First watch prepare for

duty!”

TheFirstWatchOfficergetsupandbeginssystematicallytodresshimselfup.TheOldManwatcheswith interest ashe finallymanages toget into thehugebootswiththeirthickcorksoles,wrapascarfmeticulouslyaroundhisneck,andmufflehimselfupinthethick-linedleatherjacket;hegivesamilitarysaluteanddeparts.Shortly afterward, the navigator, who has been in charge of the previous

watch, comes through, his face reddened by the wind, and reports: “Windnorthwest, tendingtoveer to theright,visibilitygood,barometeronethousandandthree.”Thenhemakesusgetupbecausehewants togo through tohisquarters to

change.Thenavigatorhasalsobeenonboardsincetheboatwascommissioned.Hehasnever servedonsurfacevessels,onlyonU-boats.Wayback in theoldReichNavyinthosetiny,single-hulledcrafts.Thenavigatorwouldprobablybeafailureasanactor.Hisfacialmusclesare

stiff, so that he seems to be wearing a rigid mask. Only his deep-hollowed,heavy-browedeyesarefulloflife.“Hehaseyesinthebackofhishead,”Iheardsomeoneinthebowcompartmentsayofhimapprovingly.Inso lowavoice that thenavigatorcan’tpickitupnextdoor, theOldMan

whisperstome:“He’sanaceatdeadreckoning.Sometimesinbadweatherwecan’tseestarsorsunfordaysorweeksatatime,butourpositioncheckswithastonishingprecision.Ioftenwonderhowhedoesit.Hasalottodoonboard.Inchargeofthethirdwatchinadditiontoallthatnavigationalstuff.”After thenavigator, it’s thebosunwhowants togo forward.Behrmann isa

chunky fellow, red-cheeked and bursting with health. And then, as though toillustrate the contrast between seamen and engineers, comes the white-facedchiefmechanicJohann.“TheSorrowsofChrist,”theCommandercallshim.“Arealexpert.Marriedtohismachines.Hardlyevercomesondeck,arealmole.”Five minutes later three men of the new watch struggle through the mess

towardthestern.Itnolongermatterstome—whentheFirstWatchOfficergotupIhadquickly

plantedmyselfinhisseat.“ThenexttolastwasArio,”theChiefsays.“Andthelastone,thelittlefellow,

was the new—what’s his name?—the replacement for Backer. Control-roomassistant.He’salreadygotanickname,‘theBibleScholar’—apparentlyhereadstracts.”

Soonthewatch thathasbeenrelievedcomes through.TheChief leansbackand drawls, “That’s Bachmann, ‘the Gigolo’: diesel stoker. Absolute balls!There’snothingtostokeanymore,butintheNavytraditionssurvivelongerthanships.Hagen:E-motorstoker.Evenlesstostoke.Turbo:theothercontrol-roomassistant.First-rateboy.”Then from the opposite direction appears a tall blond fellow, Hacker, the

torpedo mechanic and senior man in the bow compartment. The only pettyofficer who sleeps there. “Maniac,” says the Old Man. “Once he got acompletelyscrewed-uptorpedooutoftheupper-deckcompartmentwithahugesearunning, took itapartandrepaired it,belowdecksofcourse.Thatwasourlastfish,andweknockedoutonemoreshipwithit,aten-thousand-tonsteamer.Hissteamer,strictlyspeaking.He’llgetthefriedeggsoon—he’searnedit.”Nextthroughthecompartmentisasmallmanwithveryblackhaircarefully

plasteredbackandsliteyes that twinkleconfidinglyat theChief,Hisforearmsare tattooed; I catcha fleetingglimpseof a sailorhuggingagirl against a redsun.“That was Dunlop. Torpedo man. He looks after the workshop. The big

harmonicainthesoundroombelongstohim.”FinallywegetFranz,alsoamastermechanic.TheChiefcastsadisgruntled

lookafterhim.“Tirestooeasily.Johann,theotherone,isthebetterman.”

The meal is over and I’m making my way from the O-Mess to the pettyofficers’quarters.Thebosunmustbeaterrifichousekeeper.He’sdivideduptheprovisionsand

stowed them away so perfectly everywhere that the trim of the ship hasn’tsuffered—and, as he proudly assures me, in such a way that perishables willcometohandbeforethingsthatlast.Nooneelseknowswherethemountainsoffoodhavedisappeared to.Only thehard sausages, the sidesof bacon, and theloavesarevisible.Thesupplyofsausagehangsfromtheceilingof thecontrolroomasthoughinasmokehouse.Thefreshbreadfillsthehammocksinfrontofthesoundroomandradioshack.Everytimesomeonewantstogetpast,hehastostoopandworkhiswaythroughtheloaves.I climb through the second circular hatch. My bunk is free now. The

equipmentislaidoutproperlyontheblanket,thebagwithmybelongingsatthe

bottom end. I can pull the green curtain shut and close out the world.Woodpanelingononeside,greencurtainontheother,whitelacquerabove.Thelifeoftheboatisnowreducedtovoicesandsounds.

IntheafternoonIgoupontothebridge.TheSecondWatchOfficerhasjustbegunwatch.Thesea isbottle-green.Closebeside theboat,almostblack.Theairisdamp,theskycompletelycloudedover.After I have stood for a good while beside the Second Watch Officer he

begins to talkfrombeneathhisbinoculars.“Itwasabouthere that theyfiredaspreadoffouratus.Patrolbeforelast.Wesawonefishshootbythesternandanotheronecutpastthebow.Madequiteanimpression!”Choppylittlewaveshaverisenonthelowgroundswell.Howeverbenignthe

water may appear, the shadow of each of these short waves may hide theenemy’speriscopeeye.“Havetobedamncarefularoundhere!”saystheSecondWatchOfficerfrom

betweenhisleathergloves.TheCommandercomesup.Hegrowlsacurseattheweatherandsays,“Look

out,youngster,keepyoureyesopen!Damnbadspothere!”Suddenlyhesnarlsatthestarboardlookoutaft.“Keepitdownorwe’llhave

tohangyouovera laundry line!”Andafterawhile,“Ifyoucan’t take it,youshouldn’tbehere.Butsinceyouare,you’llhavetofindyoursealegsanywayyoucan.”Heordersapracticedivefor16.30hours,Afterherlongperiodindock,the

boatistosubmergeforthefirsttimeandbebalancedout,sothatwhenanalarmcomes there won’t have to be a lot of trimming and flooding first. It’s alsoimportanttomakesurealltheventsandplugsareworking.The order “Clear bridge for dive!” initiates themaneuver. The anti-aircraft

ammunitiondisappearsintothetower.ThethreelookoutsandtheOfficeroftheWatcharestillonthebridge.Orders,reports,ringingofbells.Aft,thedieselsarestoppedanddisengaged.

TheE-motorsaregearedtothedriveshaftsandsetathighspeed.Simultaneouswiththestoppingofthediesels,thebigconduitsleadingtotheoutside—fortheexhaustandforairintake—areclosed.FromthedieselroomthesignalReadyto

Dive is flashed to the control room. The bow compartment also gives itsAllReadysignal.Thelookoutsonthebridgehavecomebelow.Lookinguptheshaftofthetower,IseetheWatchOfficerhastilyturningthehandwheelthatpressesthetowerhatchhomeinitsbed.“Clear the air-release vents!” the Chief orders. Reports come in quick

successiontotheChief.“One!”“Three,bothsides!”“Five!”“Fiveclear!”Itsoundslikeamagicincantation.“Allventsclear!”theChiefreports.“Flood!”comesfrombelow.“Flood!”theChiefrepeatsforhiscrew.Thesailorsinthecontrolroomswiftlyopentheemergencyevacuationvents.

The air that gave the boat buoyancy escapes with a thundering roar from itstanks.Thehydroplaneoperatorssettheforwardplaneharddownandtheafter-plane tendown.Theboatdipsandbecomesnoticeablybowheavy; thepointeronthedepthmanometermovesslowlyoverthenumbersonthedial.Onemorewavecrashesagainstthetowerandthensuddenlyallnoiseceases:thebridgehasslidunderwater.Oppressivesilence—nobreakingofwaves,nomorevibrationofthediesels.

Theradioissilent.Radiowavescannotpenetratethedepths.Eventhehummingoftheventilatorshasstopped.Ipaycloseattention.Somedayitmaybeuptome.The Chief orders, “Forward up ten, aft up fifteen!” The bow heaviness is

corrected.Thecurrent from thepropellers strikes theupward-tiltedhydroplaneandslowlytheboatgrowssternheavy.Thefinalbubblesofairthathaveclungtothecornersofthebuoyancycellsandmightgiveunwelcomeliftnowescape.TheChiefreportstotheCommander,“Boatbalanced!”TheCommanderorders,“Closevents!”Theexhaustventsontopofthebuoyancycellsareclosedbyhandwheelsand

connectingrodsinthecontrolroom.“Proceedtoninetyfeet!”TheCommander is leaningmotionlessat thechart

table,hiselbowsbracedbehindhim.TheChiefstandsbehindthetwohydroplaneoperators,sothatthehydroplane

indicators, depth indicators, trim indicators, waterdepth gauges, scales, andmanometerneedleareinfullview.

Thehandofthemanometerturns.Fortyfeet,sixty,seventy-five.NowthereisonlythesofthummingoftheE-motors.Somewherewaterdrips

into the bilge with a thin, lost sound. The Chief looks up. With his pocketflashlighthegoessearchingamongthepipesontheportside.Thenthedrippingstopsbyitself.“That’sthat,”theChiefmurmurs.Ashudderlikeachillrunsthroughtheboat.TheOldMan seems completely unconcerned.He appears to be just staring

blanklyahead,butnowandagainheglancesaroundquickly.The indicator on themanometer approaches ninety. Itsmovement becomes

steadilyslower.Finally it stops.Theboat isno longerdescending; ithovers inthewaterlikeazeppelin,butyoucanfeelthatitisstillsternheavy.Thereisnoupwardordownwardmotion,butit’snotyetonanevenkeel.The Chief begins the trimming operation. “Pump water forward!” The

control-roomassistantTurboturnsavalvebehindtheperiscopeshaft.The Chief orders a readjustment of the hydroplanes. Now the boat rises,

withoutanywaterhavingbeenexpelled.Veryslowlythehandofthemanometermovesbackwardoverthedial.Simplybyuseofthehydroplanesandtheforwardthrustofthepropellerstherequireddepthisreached—dynamically.NowandagaintheChiefgivesanordertothehydroplaneoperators.Finally

theCommander speaks. “Proceed to periscope depth!”He gets upwith a jerkandclambersheavilyintothetower.“Forwarduptwenty,aftdownfive!”TheChief.Thecolumnofwater in thePapenberg is alreadyslowly sinking.TheChief

bends to one side, tilts his head back, and reports to the tower, “Periscopecleared!”EveryupordownmovementofthecolumnofwaterinthePapenbergmeans

ariseorfalloftheboat.ThehydroplaneoperatorshavetotrythroughexpertlytimedsettingoftheplanestocounteractariseorfallbeforethesemotionsshowinthePapenberg,forthenitistoolate:eithertheperiscopehasrisentoohighoutofthewater,betrayingtheboattotheenemyincaseofattack,orithasplungedbeneath the surface so that theCommander sees nothing at all at the decisivemoment.TheChiefhasnotoncetakenhiseyesoffthePapenberg.Neitherhavethetwo

hydroplaneoperators. Itbarely risesor falls.Total silence in theboat,onlyanoccasionallowhummingfromtheperiscopemotor.

“Bridgewatchstandby!Oilskinson!”ThevoiceoftheCommanderfromthetower.Thebridge lookouts tie theirsou’-westersunder theirchinsandputon their

oilskinjackets,thenforminagroupunderthetowerhatch.“Preparetosurface!”Aft,thestokersnowpumpoilsothatthedieselscanstartimmediately.“Surface!”The Chief has the forward hydroplane turned up full and the aft up five

degrees.Heordersthetanksblown.Withasharphissingsoundthecompressedairstreamsin.“Equalizepressure!”Suddenlythereisapaininmyears;theexcesspressurehasbeenreduced.A

streamoffreshairburstsintotheboatfromabove:thetowerhatchisopen.Theventilatorsareturnedonanddrawamightydraftintotheboat.Therefollowsaseriesofordersfortheengines.“Portdieselready!”“PortE-motorstop!Changegears!”“Portengineslowforward!”The trim cells are flooded again. After that the Commander orders, “Blow

tankswiththediesels!”Thedieselexhaustgasesnowforcethewateroutofthebuoyancycells.This

savescompressedair.Andtheprocedurehasanotheradvantage:theoilyexhaustgaseshelppreventcorrosion.One buoyancy cell after the other is blown out. From the bridge the

Commander can tell by the air bubbles that rise along the sides of the boatwhether thebuoyancycells havebeenproperly cleared.After awhilehe callsdown,“Allblown.Dismissfromdivingstations!”Theboatisasurfacevesselagain.TheCommanderorders,“Starboarddieselstandby!StarboardE-motorstop!

Shiftover!Starboardengineforwardslow!”TheChiefstandsup,wriggleshisshoulders,stretches,andlooksquizzically

atme.“Well?”

I nod submissively and, like a defeated boxer, sink down on the sack ofpotatoes leaning against the chart table. TheChief seizes a handful of prunesfromthechestthatstandsopenforeveryonebesidethetable,andholdsthemoutto me. “Spiritual refreshment! Yes, we’re not exactly your simple,straightforwardkindofboat.”WhentheOldManhasdisappeared,theChiefsaysquietly,“Thingsaregoing

tostaylivelytoday.‘Workingthewearinessoutofdissipatedbones!’iswhattheOldMan calls it.Nothing gets past him.He has his eye on everyone.Allweneedisasinglemistakeandwe’llbeinforoneexerciseaftertheother.”

Onitstableunderathickcelluloidcoverliestheseachart.Atpresentit’sstillablank,showingonlytheedgesofthecoasts.Thelandmassesbehindthecoastsare empty, as though uninhabited; no roads, no towns. A sea chart. What’sbehindthecoastshasnomeaningfortheseafarer.Atmostafewlandmarksandthedesignatedlighthouses.Ontheotherhand,allshoalsandsandbarsnear theentrance to rivers are here. A zigzag pencil line extends from Saint Nazaire.Thereisacrossonit—ourlastbearing.Ourgeneralcourseisthreehundreddegrees,butIkeephearingorderstothe

helmsman.Dangerfromenemysubmarinesstillkeepsusfromsteeringastraightcourse.In thecontrol roomanoff-dutymemberof thewatch is talkingwithTurbo,

theassistant,whopreservedhisreddishbeardwhiletheboatwasinharborandnowlookslikeanimitationViking.“Wonderwherewe’reofftothistime.”“LookslikeIceland!”“Naw,Ibetonthesouth!Alongsouthernpatrol.Lookatallthestuffwetook

onboard.”“Thatdoesn’tmeanadamnthing.Andwhyshouldwecareanyway?There’s

nogettingashoreforaquicklaywhicheverwaywego.”Turbo has been aboard a long time. With the blasé manner of a man of

experience, he draws down the corners of his mouth, half hidden under histangleofbeard,tapstheothermanindulgentlyontheshoulder,andexplainstohim,“CapeHatterasinthemoonlight—Icelandinthefog—youcertainlyseetheworldwhenyou’reintheNavy.”

BeforetheeveningmealtheCommanderordersatrialdeepdive.Hewantstofindoutwhethertheoutboardplugswillholdatgreaterdepths.TheVII-Cboatshavebeenapproved foradepthof threehundred feet.But

because the effect of depth charges decreases the deeper they are when theyexplode (the denserwater reduces the impact of the pressurewave), the boatsmustoftengobelowthreehundredtoescapepursuit.Towhatdepththepressurehullcanreallyholdout—I.e.,whatthemaximumdivingdepthis—whoknows?Menwhohavegoneverydeepcanneverbe sure they’veactually reached theextremelimit.Andacrewonlyfindsoutonceatwhatdepthitsboatcracks.The afternoon’s series of diving commands is repeated.Butwedon’t reach

equilibriumatninety;insteadwegodeeperanddeeper.Theboatisasquietasamouse.Suddenly a sharp screeching, a frightening, ear-splitting sound. I catch

alarmedlooks,buttheOldManmakesnomovetostoptheobliquedownwardmotion.Themanometerneedlestandsatfivehundred.Againtheshrieking,combined

withdull,scrapingsounds.“Not exactly an ideal spot here,”murmurs theChief.He has sucked in his

cheeksandglancesexpressivelyattheCommander.“The boat has to be able to take it,” says theOldMan laconically. Then I

realizetheboatisscrapingoverrocksonthebottom.“Purelyamatterofnerves,”whisperstheChief.Theghastlysoundcontinues.“Thepressurehullwillholdupallright…Butthescrewsandrudder…”the

Chiefcomplainsinamutter.TheOldManseemstobedeaf.Thankgod—thescreechingandscrapingstop.TheChief’sfaceisgray.“Soundedexactlylikeastreetcaronacurve,”saystheSecondWatchOfficer.

TheOldMan’smanneristhatofabenevolentpastorasheexplainstome,“Inthe water noises are magnified five times. Makes a great racket, but doesn’tmeanmuch.”TheChiefgulpsinairasifhe’djustbeensavedfromdrowning.TheOldMan

looksathimlikeaninterestedpsychiatrist,thenannounces,“That’senoughfor

today.Surface!”The litanyofordersfor thesurfacingmaneuver is run through.Thehandof

thedepthmanometermovesbackwardoverthedial.The Commander and the watcti go above. I follow them and take up a

position behind the bridge enclosure in the “greenhouse.” There is plenty ofspace around the four anti-aircraft guns. I can look straight throughanddownbetween the crossbars of the greenhouse railing. Although we’re traveling atcruisingspeed, thewaterfoamsandswirlsviolently.Myriadsofwhitebubblesstreamup,stripsoffoaminterweaveonlytodisperseagain.Ifeelentirelyalone.Isolated on an iron raft. The wind presses against me, the iron vibrates withminute oscillations. New patterns drift by constantly. I have to tear my eyesawaytokeepfromdozingoff.Suddenly behindmy back I hear the deep drawling voice of theOldMan.

“Beautiful,isn’tit?”Thenfollowshisusualbeardance.“Stretchinghislegs,”hecallsit.Isquintatthesinkingsun,whichhasbrokenthroughaholeintheclouds.“Apleasurecruiseinthemiddleofthewar!Whatmorecouldamanask!”Hestaresat theforeshipandsays,“Themostseaworthyship there is—with

thegreatestradiusofaction.”Thenwebothlookasternoverthewaves.“Tsch—ourwake!Apretty illustrationofmortality: you’re stillwatching—

andit’sgone!”Idon’tdare lookathim.“Philosophicalhot air,” iswhathewouldcall this

kindofprofundity ifheheard it fromanyoneelse.Buthegoeson to spin thethread further. “Even Mother Earth is a little more considerate; at least sheallowsustheillusion.”Ipressmytongueagainstmyfrontteethandhisssoftly.ButtheOldManwon’tbeputoff.“Perfectlyclear.Sheallowsustheillusion

that we’ve immortalized ourselves on her—engraved records, erectedmonuments.Allshe’sdoingisgivingherselfalittlemoretimethantheseadoestolevelthingsoutagain.Acoupleofthousandyearsifnecessary.“The Navy’s famous clarity strikes again!” is all I can find to say,

embarrassed.“That’sthewayitis,”saystheOldMan,grinningstraightintomyface.

My first night aboard: I try to go limp, to extinguish all thought.Waves ofsleepfinallyreachme,drawmeawayforawhile,butbeforeIcansettledownproperly they rejectmeagain.AmIasleeporawake?Theheat.Thestenchofoil.Thewholeboatquiverswithathinvibration:theenginescommunicatetheirrhythmtothesmallestrivet.Thedieselsrunallnight.Everychangeofwatchstartlesmewideawake.Each

timethehatchopensorisslammedshutinitsframe,I’mdraggedbackfromthevergeofunconsciousness.

It’s very different from awakening on a conventional ship. Instead of theoceanfoamingbeyondaporthole,thereisonlyharshelectriclight.Heavy-headed,leadinmyskullfromtheenginefumes.Forhalfanhournow

deafeningradiomusichasbeenraspingatmynerves.BeneathmeIseetwobentbacks,butnoplacetoputmydanglingfoot.IfI

weretogetoutofmybunknow,Iwouldhavetostepbetweenthehalf-finishedfood and the scraps ofwhite bread turning tomush in puddles of coffee.Thewholetableisaslimymess.Thesightofpale-yellowscrambledeggsmakesmygorgerise.Fromtheengineroomcomesthestenchoflubricatingoil.“Dammit,man,getthathatchshut!”Hinrich, the radioman, looksdespairingly at the ceiling.Whenhediscovers

me,hestares,hiseyesstillgummedhalfshut,asthoughIwereanapparition.“Give us another shot of that coffee from the clap hypo,” says the E-mate

Pilgrim.ClearlyIshouldhavegotoutofmybunkearlier.Ican’ttramplethroughtheir

breakfastnow,soI letmyselfsinkbackandlisten.“Comeon,getyourfatassoutofthere!”“Like baby shit, these scrambled eggs! I can’t stand the smell of this

powderedstuff!”“Wanttokeephensinthecontrolroom?”

Thethoughtofchickens—whiteleghorns—inthecontrolroomnestingonthetrim-valvecontrolscheersmeup.Iconjureupavividpictureoftheirgreenish-whitemucksmearedonthefloorplatesamidclottedchickenfeathers,andIcanheartheirsillycacklinginmyears.AsachildIhatedtotouchchickens.Ican’tstand themnow either. The smell of boiled chicken feathers—the pale yellowskin—thefattypope’snose.The loudspeaker thunders through the boat, “I am Lilli, your Lilli from

Najanka.That’sintheCameroon,rightontheTanka…”Theloudspeakercanbe turneddowna little,but itcan’tbe turnedoffsince

it’salsoused to transmitcommands.Sowehave toacquiesce to thewhimsoftheradiomanorhisassistant,whoselectstherecordsinhisshack.“Lilh”seemsto have caught the assistant’s fancy. He’s playing it for the second time thismorning.Ishudderattherealizationthatit’sreallyonlybetweenfourandfiveam.But

to avoid the process of conversion in radio communications, we operate onGermansummer time.Besides,wearenowso farwestof theprimemeridianthatbetweenthesuntimeofourpositionandthetimeshownbyourclockstheremustbemorethananotherhour’sdifference.Essentiallyitdoesn’tmatterwhenwesetthebeginningoftheday.Theelectriclightisontwenty-fourhours,andthechangingofthewatchesoccursatintervalsthathavenothingtodowiththetimeofday.It’stimetodragmyselfoutofthecovers.Isay“Excuseme,”andforceone

footbetweenthetwomenwhoaresquattingonthebunkbelow.“Allgoodthingscomefromabove!”IhearPilgrimsay.WhileIsearchformyshoes,whichIthoughtIhadsafelyjammedbehindtwo

pipes,Icarryonamorningchatwiththecontrol-roommate,whoissittingclosebesidemeonafoldingchair.“Well,howdoesitlook?”“Commeci,commeça,HerrLieutenant!”“Barometer?”“Rising.”I thoughtfullyscratch the fluff fromthewoolblanketsoutof thestubbleon

my face. The comb I run over my head turns black immediately—my haircatchestheparticlesintheoilfumeslikeafilter.FrommylockerIdigoutawashclothandsoap.Iwouldliketowashinthe

forward head, but a quick glance through the circular hatch tells me that’simpossible at themoment: the red light is on. So I simplywipemy eyes andstowthewashclothandsoapinmytrouserpocketforthetimebeing.ThelightsignalwasriggedupbytheChief.Itgoesonassoonasthelatchon

theinsideisturnedto“Occupied.”Oneoftheniceinventionsthatreducewearandtear,fornownooneneedstoworkhiswayinuncertaintyalongthenarrowgangwayfromoneendof theboat to theother,only tobebroughtupshort infrontofalockeddoor.AsIleavethewardroomIhearPilgrimcroon,“Themorningshitcomessoon

orlate,althoughtilleveningyoumaywait,”andimmediatelythereisarumblinginmybelly.IapplytheCouémethod:“Thereisnorumblinginmybelly.Inmybellythereispeace.Inmybellythereisquietandserenity!”TheChiefcomesinfromhismorningvisittotheengineroom,hishandsoily.

TheFirstWatchOfficerisnowheretobeseen,noristheSecondEngineer.TheCommanderisprobablywashing.TheSecondWatchOfficerisstillonduty.The cook had beenwakened at 06.00.Alongwith the pale scrambled eggs

thatcometothetablecold,thereisbread,butter,andblackcoffeecalled“niggersweat.” Against this brew my stomach protests violently; the cramping andrumbling inmy gut getworse. I take a quick look to seewhetherCabinH isfinallyfree.“Don’tyoulikeit?”theChiefinquires.“Idon’tknow—itisn’texactlyatastethrill.”“Yououghttotrybrushingyourteethfirst,thenperhapsit’lltastebetter,”the

Chiefadvises,chewingwithbothcheeksstuffed.TheCommandercomesoutofhis cubbyhole with toothpaste spattered on his cheek and his beard darkenedwithmoisture.He says, “Goodmorning to you, unwashed heroes of the sea,”edgeshimselfintohiscorner,andstaresintospace.Noonedaressayaword.Finallyheasksforthecodewordoftheday.“Proculnegotiis,”theChiefproposesandtranslatesimmediately,soasnotto

showanyoneup,“Farfrombusinesscares.”TheCommandernods.“Education,education—excellent!”Theloudspeakerblaresatorchsong.

Now the heavymorning traffic has started up.Every fewminutes someoneforceshiswaythroughtheOfficers’Mess.SinceIsitonmyfoldingchairinthemiddleofthegangwayIhavetogetupeachtime.Mygutsarenowinupheaval.Dammit!Whenwilltheidiotintherefinallycomeout?Thewhole thingwouldbe noproblem if demand for the headwere evenly

spaced. If therewere no rush hour like thismorning.Midnight is just as bad,because thewatchfromthebridgeand thewatchfromtheengineroomgooffduty simultaneously. Eight people then want to use it at the same time. Lastnight, two of the men still waiting in the control room were doubled up asthoughthey’dbeenkickedinthebelly.AtlastthedoortoCabinHopens.TheFirstWatchOfficer!Isnatchmythings

andalmost tear thedooroutofhishand.Over the tinywashbasin inCabinHthereisevenafaucetforfreshwater.Itisn’trunning,butinanycaseit’sonlytobeusedforbrushingteethandacat’slickwithawashcloth.Icanusethesalt-water tap andmanage to achieve a sort of half latherwith the salt-water soapprovided,but Ican’tmakemyselfgarglewith thebrinywater.WhenI turnupagain in theOfficer’sMesseveryone isstill sittingaround the table insilence,followingtheCommander’sexample.Fromtheloudspeakerameltingvoiceinquires,“Doyouloveme?Itwasonly

yesterdaythatyousaidno…”TheChiefsighsaudiblyandrollshiseyes.Itakealargeswallowofcoffeeandswirlitbackandforthuntilit’sfoaming,

force the brown liquid through the narrow openings between my teeth, let itgurglethroughagap,andshootitfrommyrightcheekintotheleftuntilalltheencrustedspittleanddepositsarewashedaway—thenIswallow.Ah!NowIcanbreathe better through my mouth. Next a deep breath through my nose. Mythroatandrespiratorytractareclear.Thecoffeetastesbettertoo.TheChiefwasright.After breakfast the Commander goes to work on the ship’s log with

undisguisedreluctance.Heannouncesspecialinstructionforthepettyofficersanhourlater.TheChiefdisappearsaftagain,theFirstWatchOfficerbusieshimselfwithsomekindofpaperwork.Thestewardcomestoclearaway:ship’sroutine.OnmywayaftIpassthroughthecontrolroom,andtheroundopeningofthe

towerhatchisstillfilledwithblacknight.Theaircominginfromaboveiscold

anddamp.Let’sgo,Isaytomyself,andputmyleftfootonthealuminumladder,althoughIdon’tfeeltheslightestdesiretogoondeck.Nowtherightleg!I’matthelevelofthehelmsman,whoissittingbentoverhisdimlylitdialsin

thetower.“Permissiontocomeontothebridge?”“Cranted!”ThevoiceoftheSecondWatchOfficer.Ipushmyheadovertherimandpolitelysaygoodmorning.IttakesawhileformyeyestoadjustthemselvestothedarknesssothatIcan

make out the horizon. High in the sky a few pale stars still shimmer faintly.Abovetheeasternhorizonaredbandoflightisslowlyemerging.Graduallythewaterbrightenstoo.Ishiver.Kriechbaum the navigator comes up. Silently he looks around, sniffs hard,

andhasthesextanthandeduptohim.“Stopwatchready?”heshoutsdowninahoarsevoice.“Ayeaye,sir!”comesthereportfromfarbelow.Thenavigator points his instruments atSaturn andputs his right eye to the

eyepiece. For a while he remains motionless, then he lowers the sextant andturnsthescrew:hebringsSaturnfromtheheavensandplacesitpreciselyonthehorizon.“Attention—Saturn—zero!”heshoutsbelow.Inthecontrolroomthetimeisrecorded.Thenavigatorhasdifficultyreading

the figures in the half-light. “Twenty-two degrees, thirty-five minutes,” heannouncestothemanbelow.From the time of day and the height of the planet a base line can now be

calculated.Onebaseline,however,doesnotgiveaship’sposition—weneedasecond.Thenavigatorraisesthesextantoncemore.“Attention—Jupiter—zero!”Apause,andthen:“Twenty-twodegrees,twenty-sevenminutes!”Cautiouslyhehandsthesextantdown,thenfollowsit.Iclimbafterhim.Once

below, he takes off his peajacket and pulls up to the chart table. He has nospaciousmaproomsuchasnavigationofficershaveonthebigsteamers.Hehas

to make do with the tiny table in the control room, placed to port amid aconfusionofswitches,speaking tubes,andvalves.Above this table isa lockerforthesextantandthestarfinderandashelfwithnauticalalmanacsandtablesoftimesandazimuths,navigationalhandbooks,cataloguesoflighthouses,chartsoftheweatherandtides.Thenavigatorpicksupapencilandcalculates.Heisonintimatetermswith

sines,cosines,tangents,andtheirlogarithms.“It’ssortofnicethatwe’restillmakinguseofthestars,”Isaycasually,justto

putanendtothesilence.“What’sthat?”“I simplymeant—thatwithall the technicalperfectionhere in theboat, it’s

reallyastoundingthatyoustillusethesextanttofindtheship’sposition…”“HowelsecouldIdoit?”Icanseemyobservationsareoutofplace.Perhapsit’stooearlyintheday,I

saytomyself,andperchonthechartchest.Thenavigatorpicksup thecelluloidsheet thatcovers thechart.Themapof

ourareaoftheseaisnowuniformlyblue-gray.Nocoastaledges,noshallows—onlya thicknetworkof squareswithnumbersand letterson theperpendicularandhorizontallines.Thenavigatorholdsthedividersbetweenhisteethandmutters,“Thereitis—

aprettylittleerror,fifteenmiles—well,soitgoes!”Withastrokeofthepencilheconnectsourlastpositionwiththenewone.He

pointstoasquareonthechart.“Thingswerereallywildhereonce,almost‘Lashthehelmandtaketoprayer!”Apparentlythenavigatorisreadyforalittlemoregiveandtake.Hepointshis

dividersatthespotwherethingsweresowild.Thecontrol-roommatenowcomesupandlooksatthenetworkofsquares.“Thatwasonthefourthpatrol.Typicalhallelujahvoyage.Oneattackontop

ofanother.Theywereafterusfromthewordgo.Depthchargesallday.Youlostcount…”Thenavigatorkeepshiseyeson thedividersas though theystillhold signs

and portents for him. Then he takes a deep breath, snaps them together, andabruptlythruststhemaway.“Wasn’tatallfunny.”

I know that he won’t say anythingmore. The control-roommate also getsbacktowork.Thenavigatorcarefullyfits thesextantbackintoitscase.Atinyholefromthepointofhisdividersremainsinthechart.

SincethereisstillconsiderableconfusionintheboatIclamberbackontothebridgesoasnottobeintheway.Thecloudsarenowsharplydefinedmosaicsinlaidinthegraybluesky.Oneof

them drifts in front of the sun. Its shadow wipes away the greenish-whiteradiancefromthesea.Thecloudissolargethatitsloweredgedipsbeneaththehorizon,but thereareholes init throughwhichthesun’sraysdartatanangle.The beams seem to come from a projector, traversing the sea; one of themsweeps directly over our boat, and for a while it illuminates us like a hugetheatricalspotlight.“AIRCRAFTONTHELEFT!”Bosun’smateDorian’sshouthitsmelikeanelectricshock.Forafractionofa

second I catch sightof adarkpoint against thegraybackgroundof cloudandthenI’mat theconning towerhatch. Its locking leverbangs intomycoccyx. Ialmostscreamwithpain.AsIslidedowntheladderIhaveaclearvisionoftheleatherguardthatshouldbecoveringthisprotrudingironhandle.Below,myleaptothesideis tooshort.Thenextmanisalreadyonhisway

down.Oneofhisbootshitsmeintheneck.Ihearthebosun’smatelandwithacrashonthefloorplates.“Toodamnedclose!”heexclaims,gaspingforair.TheCommanderisalreadystandingopen-mouthedunderthetower, looking

upward.“Flood!” the Second Watch Officer shouts down. The exhaust doors are

drawnaside.Fromabovecrashesawallofwater,outofwhichtheSecondWatchOfficeremergesdripping.Theneedleofthedepthmanometermovesveryslowly,asthoughovercoming

strongresistance.Theboatseemstobegluedtothesurface.TheChiefroars,“Allhandsforward!”Themen rush stumbling and crouching through the control room.Theboat

finally becomes bow heavy and tilts forward. I have to hold on to keep my

footing.Breathlessly, the Second Watch Officer reports to the Commander. “Plane

fromtheleft.Outofaholeintheclouds.Typenotidentified!”Onceagain,throughclosedlids,Icanseetheblackpointinfrontofthecloud

banks.Thesamesentencegoesonrepeatingitself insidemyhead—”Nowhe’sgoing to drop them—now he’s going to drop them!” And then the word“bombs!”—“bombs!”—“bombs!”Gaspingbreath.TheCommanderdoesn’t takehis eyesoff thedepthgauge.

Hisfaceisexpressionless,almostindifferent.Waterdropsinthebilge—tip—tap—tip.Theelectricmotorshumverysoftly.Theelectricmotors?Oristhatthegyrocompass?Nothing?“Divingstations!”theChiefcommands.Themenworktheirwaybackupthe

incline,seekinghandholdsoneitherside,likemountainclimbers.“Bothhydroplanesup!”I stand straight, take a deep breath. A piercing pain like a hot iron shoots

throughmedown tomy feet.For the first time I realizehowheavily Ihit thehatchlever.“It’sgone!”saystheCommander.“Proceedtoahundredfeet!”“Shit!”muttersthenavigator.TheCommanderstandsinthemiddleofthecontrolroom,handsinhistrouser

pockets,cappushedtothebackofhishead.“They’ve spotted us. Here’s hoping all hell doesn’t break loose.” Then he

turns to the Chief. “We’d better stay down a while.” And tome, “I told youyesterday—theyknowexactlywhenweputtosea.We’reinfortrouble.”

Ihavemysecondaircraftscareafewhourslaterduringthenavigator’swatch.He roars “ALARM!” and I catch a glimpse at forty-five degrees—a thumb’sbreadth above the horizon—of a point in the gray. And I’m already lettingmyselfslidedownthemetalladder,guidingmyfallwithbothhandsandfeet.Thenavigatorshouts,“Flood!”

I see himhanging onto the closingwheel of the hatch cover and searchingwithhisfeetforatoehold.Finallyheturnsthespindletight.“Five!”—“Three,bothtanks!”—“One!”Aloudgurglingofwaterrushinginto

thebuoyancy tanks. “Aircraft at forty-fivedegrees, distance ten thousand feet.Notcomingdirectlyatus!”reportsthenavigator.Theventilating shafts andexhaust ventsof thedieselshavebeenmade fast

and both E-motors are coupled to the driving shafts. They are running at fullspeed.Insteadoftheroarofthedieselsthereisnowonlytheirvibratoryhum.Weholdourbreathagain.“Boat plunging fast,” the Chief reports, then quickly commands, “Blow

submersion cells!”These cells are floodedwhen theboat is on the surface, togive it additionalweight and to help overcome surface tension during a quickdive.Theyhaveafive-toncapacity;theboatisnowtooheavybythisamount.Withanexplosiveroar,compressedair isreleasedinto them,drivingthewateroutwithadeafeninghiss.Stillnobombs!It couldn’t have takenusmore than thirty seconds to submerge completely.

But the water at the point where you dive remains turbulent for about fiveminutes.ItisintothissurgethattheTommiesliketodroptheirdepthcharges.Nothing!TheOldManexpelshisbreath.Thenavigatorfollowssuitbutlessviolently.

Thecontrol-roommategivesmeafaintnod.At 250 feet theChief,with complete confidence, has the bow first pointed

upwardbythehydroplanes,thendownward.“Boat’sinbalance!”henowreports.“Closetheexhaustvents!”Westandaroundinsilenceforagoodfiveminutes.FinallytheOldManhas

usbroughtuptoperiscopedepth.Bothhydroplanesaresethardup,theE-motorsswitchedtohalfspeedahead.The next command startles me. The Chief orders flooding in the tanks,

althoughtheboatismeanttorise.Admittedlynotmuchisinvolved;neverthelesstheordertofloodseemsnonsensical.IhavetothinkhardbeforeIremember:ifwe rise, the boat expands because the pressure on it decreases, hencewe losespecificgravity;andthatmustbeequalizedsowedon’tshootuptoofast.Tobeabletostoptheboatatpreciselythedesireddepth,youhavetomaintainanexactbalance.

“Perhapshedidn’tseeusatall!”saystheOldMan.

Thethirdaircraftalarmcomesfourhourslater.ThistimeitistheFirstWatchOfficerwhoroarstheordertoflood.“Camestraightoutofthesun!”hegasps.“Allhandsforward!”More slipping and sliding,wild confusion in the control room.Anything to

getdown!TheChiefuses adifferent trick toget thebowdown faster.Onlywhen the

boat has been tipped forward by setting both hydroplanes hard down does heorder the escapeventsof the rear buoyancycells opened.For amomenthe isabletoutilizetheirliftingpowertoforcethebowdownmorequickly.“Third and last strike,” mutters the FirstWatch Officer when it’s clear no

bombsarefalling.“Iwouldn’ttemptProvidencequitethatfar,”theOldMansaysdryly.“They’regettingruderallthetime!”TheChief.“Nomannersthesedays!”“We’llstaydownawhile.Youcan’talwayscountonKramer’skindofluck.”Wemove into the 0-Mess. “Good jobby theFirstWatchOfficer,” says the

OldMan,loudenoughtobeheardinthecontrolroom.TheFirstWatchOfficerhasearnedthisbyspottingtheaircraftintime.Noteasy,whenacleverbastardsitsinhiscockpitandfliesatyoustraightoutofthesun.Ninetimesoutoftenit’sseagulls.Theyglideatyouwiththeirrigidlyextendedwingsfromjustabovethe horizon and the alarm cry is out before you realize what they are. In theglittering, blinding, glassy radiance that dissolves all contours, the illusion isperfect.Butthetenthtime,theapproachinggullturnsintoaplane.“Whenattacked from theair, always turn towindward,” says theOldMan.

“TheFirstWatchOfficerdidit justright.Theplanegetstoomuchwindonitswingasitbanksandit’sforcedoutward.Doesn’tmakethatmuchdifference,butweneedeveryfootwecanget.”“I’llremember.”“Asfortheflyersthey’resendingoutnow,allyoucansayis—hatsoff!”The

OldManbiteshislowerlip,nodsacoupleoftimes,narrowshiseyes,andsays,“There they sit in their windmills, absolutely alone, and yet they attack like

Blücher atWaterloo. They could simply drop their bombs into the drink andshoottheirmachinegunsintotheblue—who’dknowthedifference?”HecontinuestosingthepraisesoftheRoyalAirForce.“Thebomberpilots

that attack our bases aren’t exactly lily-livered either. How many was it webroughtdownlasttime?”“Eight,”Ireply.OnecrashedalmostonourroofinLaBaule—rightbetween

thepinetrees.I’mnevergoingtoeatcalves’brainsontoastagain.”“Whatdoyoumean?”“Therewerestillthreemeninside.Thecockpitwascompletelyrippedopen.

They had brought a lot of sandwiches with them. Snow-white bread top andbottom,roastmeatandlettuceinbetween,andalloveroneofthem,thepilot’sbrains. Iwanted togetholdof thepapers—anythingat all—but theplanewasalreadyonfireandsuddenlythemachine-gunammostartedgoingoff,soIhadtoScram.”I try to read a nautical handbook.After awhile I just catch theOldMan’s

voice. “The pilot that got the Gneisenau must have been quite a boy. Noemergencyrationsinhispocket,justcondoms…”Iputthebookaway.“Obviously he was planning to finish off his mission with a visit to the

whorehouses on theRue de Ia Paix.TheCanadians are practi cal about thesethings,”saystheChief.“Alas,that’swherehemadehismistake,”saystheOldMan.“Butwhatamad

performance!Downinaspiralglide.Nobodynoticedanythingatfirst.Noflak!Noshooting!Andthentopositionhimselfperfectlyandreleasethebomb.Purecircusstuff!Itwasashamehedidn’tcomeoutofit!Theysayhehitthewaterlikeastone.Well,wemightaswelltryagain…”IclimbintothecontrolroombehindtheOldManandtheChief.TheChiefreports,“Boatreadytosurface!”“Surface!”orderstheCommanderandclimbsuptheladder.“Blowthetanks!”TheChief stares at the sinking of thewater column in the Papenberg, then

reports,“Conningtowerhatchclear.”TheCommander’svoicecomesfromabove.“Towerhatchbeingopened!”“Equalizepressure!”callstheChief.

“Let’shopethosedamnmosquitoesleaveusalonenow,”Ihearthenavigatorsay.

The control room a half hour before midnight. The soft humming of theventilators.Throughtheopentowerhatchthedieselssuckinastreamoffreshair.The few lightsare shieldedso thatno rayscan find theirwayupwardandbetrayustoanightflyer.Thedarknessextendstheroomtoinfinity.Outoftheuncertain depths of the shadows gleam the green phosphorescent arrows thatdirectustothetowerhatchinmomentswhenalllightsfail.Theseindicatorsarefairlyrecent.TheywereinstalledonlyafterthedisasteronKallmann’sboat.Inthefallof1940intheBrunsbüttelchannel,KallmanncollidedwithaNorwegianfreighter.His little boat,withoutwatertight bulkheads,was hit directly behindthecontrolroomandsplitopensocompletelythatitsankinseconds.Onlythoseondeckescaped.Whentheboatwasraised—Kallmannhadtobepresent—someofthecrewwerefoundinthecontrolroomcrowdedtogethernotunderthetowerbutontheothersideoftheperiscopeshaft.Inexactlythewrongplace.But areourgreen arrows really anyuse? If theboat sinkshere, itwill sink

thousandsoffeetandthepointerscangoongleamingtillDoomsday.In the semi-darkness the control room is huge. The only gleam of light is

forward,where it sharplydefines thecircleof thehatchopeningand theotherend of the compartment. The light comes from the radio shack and from thelampburninginthepassagetotheOfficers’Mess.Icanmakeouttwomenintheglow. They’re sitting on the chart chest, peeling potatoes. Dimly visible, theofficerof thewatchinthecontrolroomis leaningagainstastand-uptableandnotingdowninthedailylogthecontentsofthetrimtanks.Gurglingandhissing,the bilgewater sloshes back and forth under the floor plates. The two closedhatches beyond the petty officers’ quarters lessen the noise of the diesels; itsoundsfiltered.Thewavesrunningalongsidetheboatfillthecontrolroomwithafluctuatingroar.Iclimbthroughtheforwardhatch.Theradioman,Hinrich,hisheadsetonhis

ears,isdeepinabook.He’ssupportinghimselfwithhiselbowsonthetabletops,rightandleft,thatholdhisapparatus.Helooksasifhe’soncrutches.Thegreencurtain has been drawn in front of the Commander’s bunk opposite the radioshack.Butanarrowslitisemittinglight;sotheCommanderisnotasleepeither.

Verylikelyhe’swritinginbedasusual,lettershewon’tbeabletosenduntilwereturntobase.Withnoonesittingatthetable,the0-Messnowseemsunnaturallylarge.The

Chief is asleep in his bunk behind the table. Close above his face, his watchdanglesonitsshortchain,arandompendulumswinginginalldirections.In the lower berth to port, behind the curtain, the First Watch Officer is

sleepingbeforegoingonduty.Thedoortothebowcompartmentopenswithacrash.TheChiefturnsoverwithagruntandgoesonsnoring,hisfacetowardthelockers. A man with a rumpled topknot of hair comes in, mutters a sleepygreeting,blinksuncertainlyforseveralseconds,andthenresolutelydrawsbacktheFirstWatchOfficer’scurtain.“Twentyminutesto,HerrLieutenant,”Thesleep-fuddledfaceoftheFirstWatchOfficeremergesintothelightfrom

the deep shadows of the bunk. Heworks one leg out from under the covers,pushes it stiffly over the bunk railing, and rolls his body after it. The wholeperformancelookslikeaslowmotionfilmofahighjump.Idon’twanttoirritatehimbywatching,soIgoonforward.In the bow compartment themastermechanic Johann is sitting at the table

with a woeful expression on his face. He yawns and says, “Morning, HerrLieutenant!”“Bitearlyforthat!”Johannignoresthisandslowlyraiseshimselftohisfeet.Twoweakbulbsprovidethebowcompartmentwithnomorethanhalf-light.

Aheavy,sourfugmeetsme:sweat,oil,bilge,thesmellofwetclothing.Here, toward the bow, iswhere you feel the rolling of the boatmost. Two

shadowy figures are staggering back and forth in front of the torpedo tubesupports. I hear them cursing. “Anti-social bastards! Enough to drive you torevolution.Middleofthenight!”Fromthehammocksemergetwomen,thenathirdfromaportsidebunk.“Fuckitall!”ThatmustbeArio.Sincetheboatisrollingheavily,thetwoofthemmakeanumberoffruitless

attemptsbeforetheysucceedingettingtheirseabootson.“Filthyweather,eh?”onesays.“Goingtogetourfeetwetagain!”Theywork

their way into heavy sweaters andwrap towels around their necks so that nowatercangetinundertheircollarsoncetheyputtheirrubberjacketsoninthecontrolroom.

The men of the preceding watch come down the ladder stiffly. They aresoakingwet.The navigator has turned up his collar and drawnhis sou’westerdownoverhisface.Thefacesoftheothersarewhippedredbythespray.Allofthemhangtheirbinocularsoverhooksandundressassilentlyasthenewwatchdressed,peeling themselvesawkwardlyandheavilyoutof their rubber jackets.Thentheyhelponeanotheroffwiththeirrubberpants.Theyoungestmemberofthewatchloadshimselfwiththewholemassofwetoilskintrousers,jackets,andsou’westers,andcarries itaft.Thespacesbetweenthe twoelectricmotorsandonbothsidesofthesterntorpedotubearethebestfordrying.Themenwhohavecomeoffdutygulpdownamouthfulofhotcoffee,polish

theirbinoculars,andstowthemaway.“Bearingup?”thenavigatorasksme.Bosun’s mate Wichmann moves aft, the navigator with the two lookouts

forward.Forawhilethere’sonlytheroaroftheseaandthedroneoftheengines,until

thecontrol-roommateturnsonthebilgepump.All at once there’s heavy traffic in the control room.Thenewengine-room

watch is going on duty. I recognize the diesel stoker Ario and the E-stokerZörner.IntheU-roomWichmannhasplantedhimselfatthetable.Chewinghungrily.Iclimbintomybunk.NowIcanhearthewavesclosetomyearrushingpast

theboat.Thereisalongscrapingandgurglingthatrisesandfallsandsometimesmountstoawhistlinghiss.Thehatchfromthegalleyiskickedopen.Bosun’smateKleinschmidtandE-

mateRademacherappear.“Leave something for us, you glutton!Whenever I see you, you’re stuffing

yourself.”“Crap!”Throughacrack inmycurtain I seeWichmannunembarrassedly scratching

hiscrotch.Heevenliftshimselfslightlytogetatitbetter.“Getyourjoystickoutoftheway,man!Thisisnoplaceforahandjob.”“I’llfuckyouinaminute!”Wichmannretorts.ThisdialoguehasapparentlyarousedamemoryinKleinschmidt.Hegiggles

soaudiblythateveryonestopstolisten.

“SomethinghappenedtomeinaParisbistro.I’mjustsittingthereatatableandoppositemeonakindofsofathere’saNegrowithawhoreandshekeepsonfeelinghimupunderthetable.InParisthere’snoholdsbarred.”Rademachernodsinagreement.“All at once theNegro begins panting loudly and rolling his eyes. I think,

‘Thishasgottobeseen,’andpushmychairback,andIseehimjustashecomes—allovermyshoe!”“You’rejoking!”“Whatdidyoudothen?”Rademacherwantstoknow.“I justsat there thunderstruck.Butyouought tohaveseen them—theytook

offlikegreasedlightning!”“Holyshit—thethingsthathappen.”Rademacherisstillastounded.Wichmannhasapparentlytakentillnowtodigestthestoryproperly.Heleans

backandannounces,“ThoseFrencharerealswine!”IttakesanothergoodquarterofanhourfortheU-roomtosettledown.

Inthebattlelog,thefirsttwodayshavebeenrecordedasfollows:

SATURDAY08.00Departure.16.30Trialdive.18.00Deep-divetest.

SUNDAY07.46Aircraftalarmwithemergencymeasuresanddeepdive.10.55Aircraftalarm.15.44Aircraftalarm.16.05Cruisinginattackarea.

“You’ve still got eyes like an albino rabbit,” theChief needlesme. It’s thethirddayatsea.

“Nowonder—thoselastdaysonshorewereprettyrough.”“That’swhatIheard.Theysayyouwererightthereforthefamousbrawlin

theMajestic.ThatwasthenightbeforeThomsen—right?”“Exactly. You really missed something. You should have seen the

CommissionerofWorksflyingthroughtheplate-glasswindow!”“Howdidithappen?”“YouknowallaboutScholleyourself—howheconsidershimselfessentialto

thewar effort?Well, this clod starts out bypaying for a roundof drinks.Themenarebeinghalfwaypolite.HerrScholleseemstohavehadafewalreadyandis obviously feeling on top of theworld.Nothing can stop him.He’s actuallyactingasifhebelongs—asifeveryonehasbeenwaitingforhim!”I see the dueling scars—redwhipmarks—on his two hamster cheeks. I see

Herr Scholle gesticulating wildly, then wavering slowly back and forth,beginning to orate, beer foam smeared around his mouth. “Fantastic, simplyfantastic. This magnificent success! Splendid fellows—sterling characters!Jawohl!” I see the contemptuous glances of the crowd and hear the loudquestion, “What in hell is this asshole doing here?” But Herr CommissionerScholleisdeaftoeverythingbuthimself.“Stiffenyourspines—bringAlbiontoherknees.Jawohl!Thefightersatthefrontcanrelyonus.SacrificeeverythingfortheHomeland!Dedicatedknights!”“Hewas talkingabsolutegarbage,” I tell theChief.“Thewholepropaganda

bullshitaboutunflinchingspiritatthefrontandsoon.Andobviouslyincludinghimself right up there. Markus has been boiling for quite a while, but he’sbehavinghimself.It’sonlywhenScholleclapshimontheshoulderandshouts‘Upandat‘em,’thenbelches,andtotopitalloffhollers,‘Ach,justafewshittydepth charges!’ thatMarkus blows a fuse. You should have seen it. He wentbrightredandgaggedonhiswords,asthoughhe’dlosthisbreath.Buttheothers—theywere up on their feet in a singlemotion. Table and chairs, everythingknockedover.TheygrabbedtheCommissionerbythewristsandanklesandofftheywentthroughthebar—halfdragginghim,halfcarryinghim_rightdownthecorridor.Theideawastoheavehimthroughthedoorwithakickinhisbrass-hatass. But the bosun suddenly had a better one. Probably because they wereholdingtheCommissioneratbothendslikeahammock,thebosunhadthemlinehim up, roaring and struggling, parallel to the big plate-glass window, thenordered, ‘Onegoodhardswingandat thecountof three, letgo!’Theygot theidea.‘One—andtwo—andthree’—youshouldhaveseenit.TheCommissioner

sailedthroughtheair,therewasthecrashofbreakingglass,andhewaslyingonthestreet.”Icanstillheartheimpactandthesplinteringoftheglassonthepavementand

thebosunsaying,“That’sthat!”Butitisn’t.Silentlythefourabout-face,marchbackthroughthelongroomtotheirplaces,dustofftheirhandsasthoughtheyhad been touching something dirty, and reach for their glasses. “Stupid pig!”saysoneofthecrew.Suddenly someone else yells, “There he is again!” and points toward the

entrance.Throughthehazeinthedoorwayloomsabloodyface.“He’slookingforhisHimmlerspectacles!”They’reontheirfeetagain.Drunkastheyare, they’reat thedoorinaflash

and dragging the Commissioner ofWorks across the threshold. One of themkicksloosetheCommissioner’sleg,whichiscaughtinthedoorjamb.Thenthedoorisslammed.“Perhapshe’shadenoughnow,thestupidcunt!”“Andthenallthatbusinesswiththemilitarypolice?”“Apparentlytheyturnedupanhourlaterwhenonlythepettyofficersandthe

menwereleft,andtherewasarealbrawl.Oneofthepolicegotafleshwoundintheupperthigh.”“Throughouttheflotillatherewasgeneralregret,”saidtheChief,“thatitwas

notsomethingelsethatgothit.”I knowwhy theChief has such a grudge against thewatchdogs and all so-

called security agencies. Hewas on his way back from leave in Paris on theAdmiral’strainandhadmadehimselfcomfortableforadozeinthemiddayheat—bottombutton of his jacket undone, slumped down in his seat, alone in thecompartment with a lieutenant—when the door was pushed open and thecomedy began. He described the whole thing to me in the Royal. “Suddenlysomesweatybastardwasstandingthereall infieldgray,helmeted,bootedandspurred,leg-o’-muttonbreechesofcourse,fullwarpaint—acannonathiswaist.Andthroughthetwosidewindowshistwowatchdogsstaringinlikeoxen.‘Yourtravelorders,HerrOberleutnant,andwillyoukindlylooktoyouruniform.Youarenotonboardshiphere!’”The Chief, according to him, got to his feet but did not do up the button.

Instead,heundidalltheothers,fumbledforhispapers,handedthemtothesteel-helmetedheinie,andshovedhishandsdownintohistrouserpockets.

“You should have seen him.He almost exploded!Hewas bellowing like asteer.‘Ishallreportyou!Ishallreportyou!’”AtwhichpointIsaidtotheChief,“Thatso?Maybethat’swhytheydecided

to replace you and send us that Hitler Youth as your understudy. U-boatHeadquartersprobablydecided theycouldno longer regardyouas thekindofmodelourFührerwantsforthecrew!”I can still see theChiefgaping in astonishment.But thenhebegan toglow

likealightedChristmastree.ApparentlyI’dsaidtherightthing.

MondayeveningintheOfficers’Mess.20.00.Ican’tgraspthefactthatthisisonlyour thirdday at sea.The land lies so far astern thatwe could alreadybehundredsofmilesaway.Ihavetomakeanefforttoconvincemyselfthatitwasonly last Friday evening at this time that the brawlwas beginning in theBarRoyal.“Deepthoughts?”inquirestheOldMan.“No,notexactly.IwasjustthinkingaboutThomsen.”“Thatuniform!He’dbettergetridofit,”saystheOldMan.

Tuesday. Fourth Day at Sea. The Chief is strolling about, apparently atleisure.A good opportunity forme to coax some technical information out ofhim.All Ineed tosay is,“It’sall sodamnedcomplicated,”andhe’soff.“Youcan say that again.A damned sightmore complicated than ordinary steamers,which simply float out to sea on the same principle as awashtub on a pond.They’veallgot theirowncharacteristic trimand theirownconstantbuoyancy.So-and-so-manygrossregisteredtonsandso-and-so-manytonsofcargo.Andiftheyloadmoreon,thescowjustsinksalittlelowerandthewatercomesupoverthePlimsollline.That’sallthereistoit,nothingtoworryabout.Atworstit’samatter for theMaritime Authorities. But with us any excess weight demandsspecial countermeasures…” The Chief stops, nervously hoods his eyes. I’mafraidhemaynotgoon,andkeepstaringathim.Heletsmewait.Floating,beingborneupbywater,isaphenomenonI’vealwaysfoundhardto

grasp.Notwoodenrowboats—but ironshipsseemed likeamiracle tomeasa

child. Iron floatingonwater! I even sawconcrete shipswith sides as thick asbunkers on the Elbe one day, and I couldn’t believe those vastmasseswouldfloat,letalonecarrycargoes.Although I understand the functioning of the ship’s equipment and the

sequenceofmaneuvers,divingandresurfacingcontinue tobaffleme.ThefactthataU-boatcaneliminateitsownbuoyancyandgetitbackagainatwillneverceasestofascinateme.When theChief starts up again he sounds like a lecturer. “The so-to-speak

fundamentaldifferenceisthis:weachieveourbuoyancynotlikeordinaryscows,throughthewaterwedisplace,butthroughtheairinthecells.Sowhatkeepsusonthesurfaceisakindoflifepreserver.Whenweblowtheairout,wesink.”TheChiefstopsuntilInod.“Wehavetowatchourweightlikehawks.Itmustalwaysremainthesame.At

analarm,there’snotimeforfumblingaround.Everythinggoesinsanelyfast.Sowe have to trim the boat for diving in advance—that is, while we’re stilltravelingonthesurface.Thismeanswemustkeeptheweightsteadybymeansofthetrimcells.Thenwhenthere’sanalarm,allwestillhavetodoiseliminatethe lift in the buoyancy cells. Once the boat is underwater, its own weightdoesn’ttiltitupordown.”TheChiefpausestoinquire,“Gotit?”“Yes,Chief.”“At thedesireddepth, theweightof theboatmust exactlyequal thatof the

waterit’sdisplacing,sothattheboathoversperfectly,readytoreactpreciselytothe smallest push from the propellers and be easily maneuvered up or down,rightor left,by thehydroplanesor therudder. Itmustn’thaveanytendency tosinkor torise.Unfortunately theboat’sweightchangeseveryday, throughtheconsumption of provisions—water and fuel, for example. The crazy thing,however,isthatnoteventheweightofthewaterdisplacedbytheboatremainsconstant.Soeverythingisalwayschanging.Youcanneverstopcalculating.Youhardlydaretocough.”Hepausesforbreath.Getsabottleofapplejuicefromthelocker.Pullsthetin

capoffonthehingeofthelockerdoorandraisesthebottletohismouth.Hehashardlywipedhislipswhenhestartsupagain.“Thethingthatgivesus

themosttroubleisthechangingspecificgravityofwater.Ifweweredivinginfreshwater everythingwould be simpler.Then allwe’d have to do every day

wouldbetoaddthesameweightofwatertothetrimcellsasweusedupinfood,oil,andwater,andthatwouldbethat.Butinsaltwaterit’sverytricky.There’sno getting away from it. In this pond, water is not just water. Our buoyancychangesfromdaytoday—evenfromhourtohour.”Hepausesagainandglancesatmetoobservetheeffecthe’shaving.“Thespecificgravityof saltwater is influencedbyevery imaginable factor.

Depth, temperature, the timeof year, thevarious currents.Even the sea life—plankton,forexample—affectsitappreciably.Alittlemoreplanktoninthewaterandwehavetopump.Anditdependsonthesunaswell.”“Onthesun?”“Yes, the sun causes evaporation,which increases salt content.Greater salt

contentinthewaterandthespecificgravitygoesup.”“Butaren’tthedifferencesminimal?”Hepondersforawhile,frowningdeeply.“Adifferenceinthespecificgravity

ofthewater—well,let’stakeareallyminimalone,ofoneone-thousandth—thatmeansthattheweightoftheboat,tomaintainitsbalance,mustalsobechangedby one one-thousandth. Now assume that the boat weighs eight hundred andeighty tons. So: a change of one one-thousandth gives us a bit over sixteenhundredpounds.Thatmuchofadifferencewouldmakeforaseriousmistakeincalculatingthecontentofthetrimcells.Tokeeptheboatadequatelypoised,wehavetoweightitoutwiththehelpofthetrimtankstowithinelevenpounds.Isay adequately because in practice it’s impossible to weigh out the boat soaccuratelythatitremainspoisedwithoutthehelpofpropellersandhydroplanes.Evenapint—asamatterof fact,evena thimbleful—toomuchofwater in thetankswouldmakeitrise.SoeverydaythatGodtheCloudmakerallowstodawn,wehavetousethedensimetertodeterminethespecificgravityoftheseawateraroundus.”TheChief isenjoying thesoundofhisowneloquence.He’sblossoming,as

thoughthewholescienceofsubmarininghadoriginatedwithhim.TheCommander,who has been listening for some time, goes by and asks,

“Well,professor,isall thatstuffreallytrue?”asheclimbsthroughtheforwardhatch.Immediately the Chief is disconcerted. When he begins again, it’s in a

plaintivetone.“AlltheOldMan’sinterestedinisbalancingtheboatprecisely—notaquarttoomuch,notaquarttoolittle…”

TheChief seems to have finished.However, I can see he’s searching for asuitableclosingsentence.“Hell,”hesaysfinally,“thefactis,weputtoseawithalotofphysics…”“Andchemistry.”“Yes, and chemistry too—that we don’t really use. Keep your fingers

crossed,”saystheChief.“Ifiteverreallydoescomedowntochemistry,we’llbeneeding psychology too. And at that point we’ll be right up the ass of theProphet!”Hesuddenlyhastoleave.Ihavenochancetoaskhimwhathemeans.

At the noonmeal theOldMan looksmerry.Noone knowswhat’s cheeredhimupso.He’sevenjokinginawayIhaven’tnoticedbefore.TheChiefappearsatlast.“Well,Chief?”heasksinaself-satisfiedundertone.“Allinorder,HerrKaleun!”TheCommandercordiallyinviteshimtositdownonthecornerofthebunk.

ThisdeliberatefriendlinessalarmstheChief.Furtivelyhepeersateachofus.Icanimaginewhat’sabouttohappen:asIwascomingthroughthecontrolroomIsawtheCommandersecretlyslipasmallnoteintothehandofthecontrol-roomofficer.Withinafewminutesthealarmbellpeals.TheChiefhasdifficultyscrambling

tohisfeet.Ontheceilingthefloodingvalverodsbegintoturn.Theplatesonthetablestartslipping.“Holdtight!”TheChiefshootsanembitteredglanceattheOldMan,butitdoesnogood—

hehastostruggleintothecontrolroom.“Verygood.Quickasaweasel!”theOldManjeersafterhim.Theuproarcomingfromthecontrolroomconfirmsmybeliefthatthisisnota

simpletestalarm;itsoundsverymuchlikeadisasterexercise.Everythingon the table skids forward, crashingandclattering—I’malready

steppingonsplinteredplates.Thebowisgettingsteadilyheavier.

A questioning glance from the SecondWatch Officer. But the Commandercontinuestobehaveasifallthishadnothingtodowithhim.Fromthecontrolroomcomesthealarmcry:“Breachabovethewatergauge!”Instead of leaping to his feet, the Commander favors the Second Watch

Officerwith a broad grin, until the latter finally grasps that this is a carefullypreparedaccident.TheOldMan takes fiendishpleasure in thecurses anduproar coming from

thecontrol room.Hegetsheavily tohis feet and lumbershisway there likeacautiousmountainclimber.Rattlingandtinklingeverywhere,thenaloudcrash.Some massive object must have tipped over. The boat is now attempting aheadstand.The First Watch Officer is looking surly. We gather the knives and forks

together in a corner of the leather sofa. Goddam mess! The whole table issmearedwithremainsoffood.UnfairoftheOldMantochooseamealtime!“The crew has to get used to this sort of thing. The Tommies have no

considerationeither—practiceishalf thebattle!”TheOldMan’smockeryonlyaddstotheconfusion.Thankgod.Theboatisgraduallycomingbacktoanevenkeel.Nowheturns

considerate. He fixes the depth at two hundred feet. The steward comes andsilentlycleansupthemess.AfteraquarterofanhourtheChiefappears,completelydrenchedandoutof

breath.TheCommander loanshimhisownfurlinedvestandpoursouthis teawithexaggeratedcourtesy.“Itallwentoffverywell!”TheChiefacknowledgesthepraisewithasourlook.“Now,now,now!”saystheCommander.TheChiefleansbackagainstthewallandlayshishandsinhislap,palmsup.

They are smeared with oil. The Old Man looks at him disapprovingly. “ButChief—whatwill our FirstWatchOfficer think if you appear at the table likethis?”TheFirstWatchOfficer instantly turnsred.TheChiefpusheshishandsinto

histrouserpocketsandasks,“Betterthisway?Asamatteroffact,I’vealreadyeaten.”

“But Chief! You’re starting to lose weight. Eat, drink, and be merry mychildren.” The OldMan is munching away with bulging cheeks. Then in thesamederisive toneheasks, “Wasn’t there somethingyouwanted to fixon theport diesel? Now’s the time. And perhaps you’ll have the starboard dieseloverhauledwhileyou’reat it?Wecanstaydownas longas it takes.Anythingyoulike!”WhatcantheChiefdobutdisappearaftlookingresigned?TheOldMangrinsaround the tableandsays, “Let’sget some life into this

damntub!Thatendlessloafingaroundbackatbasestillsticksinmythroat.”

Ever since we’ve been at sea, the Commander has appeared to be in highspirits,oratleastquietlycontent.Heevencamebackearlyfromleave.Theboatcouldperfectlywellhavebeenreadiedwithouthim,butno,hehadtobethere.From his sacrifice of awholeweek’s leave, the crew has naturally enough

concludedthathe’snotexactlyrollingindomesticbliss.Apparentlynooneknowsanythingdefiniteabouthisprivatelife.EvenIcan

construct apictureof it only from reluctant reminiscences, cynicalmarginalia,andmyownobservations.Fromtimetotimehelooksthroughletters,allofthemwritten in green inkwith enormous handwriting. The ladywhowrote them issaid to be a flyer’s widow.Her father is amagistrate. TheOldMan once letsomethingfallaboutapianowithcandelabra—redcandles—and“verybeautifuleveningdresses.”Lookingdisgruntled, hemadeoccasional remarks about thislast leaveaswell.He“constantly”hadtokeephisdecorationaroundhisneck;he had to go shopping with her. “And that wasn’t all I had to put up with.Ridiculous. Every evening something going on. Endless company.Makes youdizzy. Iwas even supposed to give lectures in schools—I just said ‘countmeout.’“Whatpeoplelikeuswantonleaveissimplyachangeofclothes,andhours

inthebathtub.Nottobebothered,nonewspapers,noradio,turneverythingoff,stretchout.But then they layoutabeautifullypressedSundayafternoondressuniform,completewithdaggerandscabbard.Snowy-whiteshirt,silktie,blacklislesocks,andcrownitallwiththehand-polisheddecorationonanabsolutelyspotlessblack,white,andredrepribbon.Godalmighty!”

Workintheengineroomisoverinanhour.TheCommanderordersusup.Thebridgewatchgetsreadyunderthetowerhatch.“Surface!”“Forwardhydroplaneupten,afthydroplaneupfive!”TheChiefinitiatesthe

maneuver.“Blowthetanks!”Compressedairhissesoutofthesteelcylindersintothebuoyancytanks.The

waterisbeingdrivenoutthroughtheopenfloodingdoorsonthebottom.“Boat rising. Conning tower free. Boat surfaced!” reports the Chief. The

towerhatchisopenedandtheexcesspressureequalized.Ventilatewithdiesels!”The watch climbs up. The rocking of the boat has already changed to a

forwardmotion.The lappingof thewavesbecomesa sharphissing.When theventilation has been completed the Commander orders, “Dismiss from divingstations!”Astokerclimbsupintothetower.Helightsacigarette,crouchesdownonhis

haunches to the leftof thehelmsmanandgiveshimselfupwithclosedeyes tothepleasuresof tobacco.Beforehehas finished, therearecries frombelowofmenwaitinginlineforhisplace.

Afternoon.Theboathasbeenrunningonthesurfacefortwohours—at“twicehalfspeed”forachange,butwithoutthedynamosturning,sincethebatteriesarealready fully charged. At this speed, the boats make from fourteen to fifteenmilesanhour,nofasterthanagoodcyclist.ALARM!Thebellstrikesstraighttomyheart.Icatchmybreath.Amantumblesoutof theheadwithhis trousershalfdown.“Coahead,shit

yourfill,”Ihearsomeonebehindhimcall.Thedieselshavestopped—theboatisalreadytilting.Nowwhat’sgoingon?Isn’ttheChiefevergoingtostopthedive?Allatonceitdawnsonmethatthisalarmisforreal.

Westaysubmergedfornomorethanaquarterofanhour.Thenthewavesarehissingalongoursteelhullagain.“Thatstrikesme—asbeingenough—foroneday,”theChiefremarks.“Balls,”saystheOldMan.“TheOldManandtheTommiesareaperfectteam,”Ihearfrombosun’smate

Zeitlerinthebowcompartment.“Theykeepyoumoving.”

IIIFRIGGINGAROUND:1

Wednesday.FifthDayatSea.Strummingfromtheradiohalfwakesme,thenthedoortothegalleyslamsintoitsframe.Theroomresoundswithaconfusionofvoices.TheE-rnatePilgrim.“Steward,what’s thiscuntmessdoinghereonthetable?Getcracking!Outitgoes!”Iglancebelowthroughthecrackinthecurtains.Thebosun’smateWichmann

is staring at a blob of mixed-fruit jam on the table and growling, “Looks asthough the lady of the house was flying Pennant Z.” Pilgrim andWichmannseem to have one-track minds, but sometimes I don’t understand either theirvocabularyortheirreferences.“LittleSnowWhite andRoseRed,”Wichmarin says.His eyes are setwide

apartandprotrudeslightly, sohis face,despite itsnarrowchin, is rather likeafrog’s.Tokeephisblackhaircombedstraightbackandlyingflat,hecarefullysqueezesatubeofpomadebetweentheteethofhiscombandthendistributesitconscientiouslyoverhishead.He likes todescribe thekindof lifehewants—theater,nightclubs,lotsofgoodcompany—thisiswhathecallshis“dream.”Abragger,whokeepsharpingonhisinterruptedcollegeeducation.Butdespitehisloudtalk,Wichmannisconsideredagoodsailor;heissaidtohavebeenthefirsttospotmorethanoneconvoy.TheE-matePilgrim is fromThuringia, likehis colleagueRademacher; he’s

smallandpale,withapointedbeard.OnlyhetalksmorethanRademacher.Pilgrim and Wichmann are swapping stories about a certain lady in the

sailor’scathouse.“I can’t take her constant whining. ‘Don’t go off in my hair.’ That’s her

problem.Toomuchladylikecrap!”“Butsheknowsherstuffallrightotherwise.”“She’sgotagoodass,youhavetoadmitthat.”Pause.ThenPilgrim’svoiceagain.“Iscrewedthatlittlegirlfromtheflower

stallonabench in thepark.But Ididn’tgeta scumbagful till Igothomeandwenttoworkonmyself.”

Istruggleoutofmybunk.Mytongueisstickingtothebackofmymouthlikeapieceofleather.Nausea

fillsmythroat.FinallyImakeittothecontrolroomandmanageaclearenoughvoicetoask,

“Permissiontocomeonthebridge?”“Jawohl!”TheSecondWatchOfficercriesfromabove.Bendingovertheboat’srailing,Istareatthewatershootingalongbelowme,

roaring and hissing, churned up with air into a milky froth. Bubbles andstreamers of foam combine in an endless tapestry of constantly changingpatterns.Myeyesaredrawnaftbythewhitestreamers.Alongpathafewyardswide marks our course. On it, the high choppy waves are smoothed out asthough the train of a long dress had swept over them and flattened all theflashingcrests.IasktheSecondWatchOfficer,“WhatisPennantZ?”Herespondspromptly.“Thesignalforattack.It’sred.”“Filthyswine,”Iexclaiminvoluntarily.TheSecondWatchOfficerstaresatmeinsurprise.“Thanks,”Isay,anddisappearagaindownthehatch.The helmsman in the tower hardly needs to touch the rudder. The same

numberonthecompasscardswingsbackandforthunderthecentralmark.Twohundredsixty-fivedegrees.Wearerunningonaconstantcourse.According tothe navigator, it will take us ten days at cruising speed to reach our area ofoperations.We could be there sooner ifwe ran the diesels at high speed.Butwe’vechosencruisingspeedinordertosavefuel.Weneedallourreservesforthehunt.AtbreakfastIwaitinvainfortheCommander.Thealarmbellmakesmejump.Airplanes,Ithink.Fuckingvermin—youcan

alwayscountonthem!Then I catch sightof theOldMan through the circularhatch in the control

room. He’s looking at his stopwatch. Thank god. Practice alarm. He’s seeinghowlongittakestheboattogetunderwater.I squeeze to one side out of the way of the sudden scramble. The boat is

alreadypitchingdownward.Itrytokeeptheplatesonthetable,buttwoorthreeslideoff.

I can’t help thinking of all the things that have happened during practicealarms. On Kerschbaumer’s boat, they closed the intake valve to the depthmanometer bymistake.Kerschbaumerwanted to take his boat down 250 feetfast.Theboatwent downall right, but themanometer needledidn’tmove, soKretschbaumer thought the boat was stuck on the surface and ordered moreflooding, thenmore, until suddenly they noticed themistake. But by then theboatwasalready600feetdown—withashipyardguaranteeof300!

We’reatourmiddaymealwhenthenextpracticealarmtakesplace.TheChiefjumps up, knocking a full soup tureen from the table straight into the SecondWatchOfficer’slap.TheOldManstillappearsdissatisfiedafterthissecondalarm.Notawordof

appreciation.At16.00onthedotcomesthethird.Theteacupsonthetablearesmashedtobits.“Ifthisgoeson,we’llbeeatingwithourpawsanddrinkingoutofbuckets,”I

hearthebosuncomplaining.AtlasttheCommandersays,“Okaythattime!”

Seatedat thechart tableinthecontrolroom,I’mtryingtolearnmoreabouttechnical matters. An incipient row between Frenssen and Wichmann—theeternal conflict between engineers and sailors—is headed off by the arrival ofthenavigator.There’sonlyenoughtimeforWichmanntocallFrenssen’sdiesels“farters”andFrenssentoshovehisoil-smearedfistsinWichmann’sface.Withpeacerestored,Ireturntoconcentratingonthelayoutofthecells.Inthe

divingarrangementsofaU-boat thebuoyancycells take firstplace.Therearethreeofthem,locatedinsideandoutsidethepressurehull.Theinsidecellissolargethatifthetwoouteronesaredamagedtheboatcangoonfloating.Ontheundersideofthebuoyancycellsaretheflooddoors,abovethemtheair

vents.Bothmustbeopenedbeforewecandive.Astheairescapesthroughthevents, the water pours in through the flood doors to replace it. The boat hasbuoyancytanksaswellasbuoyancycells.Theselieintheoutership,andwhen

theboatleavesbasetheyarefulloffueloil.Onlywhenthisoilhasbeenusedupdotheystarttofunctionasairreservoirs,givingtheboatadditionallift.In addition to the buoyancy cells and tanks the boat has both regulator and

trimcells.Weightlostbyconsumptionoffood,water,andfuelismadeupforbytakingseawateraboardintheregulatorcells,locatedontheceilingofthecontrolroom.Thetrimcellsservetocontrolthepositionoftheboatunderwater.Iftheboat

is either bow heavy or stern heavy, it can be brought back to even keel byexchangeofwaterbetweenthetwocells—thatis,byachievingtrimstatezero.The trim cells are of the utmost importance; they are our balancing pole, forunderwater theboathasa tendency to rock lengthwiseaswell as fromside toside. With surface vessels it’s different; in a rough sea, naturally, they rollheavilyfromsidetoside,buttheydon’ttendtostandontheirhead.WithU-boats underwater, however, pitching of asmuch as forty degrees is

common. In contrast to surface ships the U-boat in its submerged state isextremelysensitivetochangesinweightandishardtokeeponanevenkeel.Forthisreasonthedesignersgavethetrimcellsthegreatestpossibleeffectivenessbyplacingthemattheextremeendsoftheboat.If a hundredweight of potatoes ismoved from the control room to the bow

compartmentwhentheboatissubmerged,bowheavinessresults.Tocompensatefor this,waterhas tobepumpedfromthecontrol roomto thesterncell—onlyhalf theweight of the potatoes, though, because thewater for the trim cell istakenfromtheoppositeendoftheboat.Theforeshipistherebymadelighterbyonehalf theweightof thepotatoes. Ifahundredweightofpotatoeswere takenfromtheE-motorroomintothebowcompartment,thetrimcalculationwould,ofcourse,bedifferent.Inthatcasewaterwouldhavetobepumpedfromthebowtothestern.Imemorizetheruleofthumb:controlcellsregulateriseandfallofboat;trim

cellsregulatepositioninwater.AftertheeveningmealIclimbasquicklyaspossibleintomybunk,dog-tired.GodknowsthesailorsIsharethecompartmentwithareatnopainstorestrain

themselvesoutofanyconsiderationforme.WhenI’mlying inmybunk, theyreturnwithcompleteabandontotopicnumberone.ApparentlyallIneedtodoisclosemycurtainandIceasetoexistforthem.Iremindmyselfofazoologist:theanimalsI’mstudyinghavebecomeaccustomedtome.

ThedaybeganwithPilgrimandWichmann;nowFrenssenandZeitlerseemetobed.Theirobsceneimaginationsappeartobeinexhaustible.Iwouldgivealotto find out whether they really have had all the adventures they’re alwaysboastingabout.Aretheyactuallytheseasonedwhorehouseveteranstheypretendtobe?It’snothardtocreditthemwithalmostanything.Thebosun’smateZeitlerisaNorthGerman.Hispale,innocentfacewithits

sparsegrowthofbeardsuitsneitherhiscynicaltalknorhisweightlifter’sbuild.He’s said to be a first-rate sailor; nothing upsets him.He belongs to the firstwatch.IfI’mnotwrong,theOldManthinksmoreofhimthanoftheFirstWatchOfficer.ThedieselmechanicmateFrenssenisathick-setfellowwhoexudesarrogant

self-assurancewhereverhegoes.Nottheslightesthintofself-doubtevercreaseshisforehead.Frenssen comes from Kottbus. He likes to appear hard-nosed; the perfect

cynical desperado from a third-rate cowboy film. His grim, slit-eyed stare issomethinghemusthavepracticed in frontofamirror.Thediesel stokersArioandSablonski,whoareinhiswatch,can’thaveaveryeasytimeofit.He’snotmorethantwenty-two.Hisbunkisdirectlyundermine.Throughmyhalf-drawncurtainIhear,“Itstinkslikeapigpeninhere.”“Whatdoyouexpectittosmelllike—acathouse?”Groansandyawns.“Sosomethingreallyhappened?”“I’llsay!”Forawhilethereisonlymunchingtobeheard.“You’rejustjealousbecauseyouonlygotyourfingerup.”“Fuckoff!AnythingyoucandowithyourcockIcandobetterwithmybig

toe.”“Yeah,ifyoucomefromKottbus,youdoitwithyourtoe!”Soundsoftheexhaustpumps,organ-likeyawnsandgasps.“In any case, no more fucking now. Somebody else is humping them all,

yoursincluded.”“Whatabrain!YououghttogetyourselfpromotedtotheGeneralStaffwitha

bright littlehead likeyours.Theyneedpeople likeyou to stick the little flagsin.”

“Oughttohavecorkedheruptokeepoutanycunt-mates!”Rattleofdishes,scrapingofboots.Mycurtainbulgesinwardassomeonemakeshiswaybetweenthetableand

thestarboardbunks.ThenIheartheirvoicesagain.“Alittlerecreationwouldn’thurtatallafteraleavelikethat.Oneairraidafter

another.It’sdownrightpeacefulherebycomparison.”“Justkeepyourfingerscrossed!”“Can’tgetlaidproperlyanymore.Notevenatnooninthearbor.”Thencomes theexplanation:“Youknow, theyhaveagardenwithakindof

summerhouse in it. Sofa, icebox_everything ready to go. But you barely getstartedwhen the fucking sirens go off, and the dumb twat gets nervous—andthere’stheendofyourfun!”

Thursday. Sixth Day at Sea. In the morning, before breakfast, I’m on thebridgewiththeCommander.Theskyiscoveredwithturquoisebatikcloudsboundtogetherbyfineveins.

Everywhereareddishbackgroundshowsthrough.Slowlythebackgroundbeginsto brighten and outshine the blue of the clouds. A red glitter takes over theeastern sky, breaking through at every opening. The expanses of cloud arepenetrated by brilliant points of light. Then slowly the flashing and glitteringgrowpaler, as though the lightweregoingout.Thecolors soften; the sunhasrisenbehindthecloudcover.“Pleasantseatoday!”saystheCommander.AtthechangingofthewatchIthinkI’vediscoverednewfaces.“Neverseenthatman,”Imutterasanotherunknowncomesoutofthetower

hatch.“Fifty men are a lot,” says the OldMan. “There have been times when I

myself didn’t recognize members of my own crew. Some of them are realmasters of disguise, of course, absolutely unrecognizable when their Passion-playbeardsaregone.Aftergettingbacktoport,whenthey’veshavedandthencome onwatch, I askmyself how on earth I could have put to sea with thiskindergarten.They’rejustkids,nurslingswhobelongattheirmothers’breasts…I’veoftenthought:please,god,onlyphotosofreturningboatsforthenewsreels

and the papers; with bearded crews. No departure pictures, if only out ofconsiderationfortheenemy’sfeelings.”AsusualtheOldManleavesmeawhiletopuzzleoutwhathemeansbythat.

“TheTommiesreallywouldhavesomething tobeashamedof if theysawjustwhowasmakinglifesuchhellforthem:akindergartenwithafewHitlerYouthsforofficers.Youfeeloldasthehillsamongallthesekids—it’sarealchildren’scrusade.”TheOldManhaschanged;I’veneverseenhimthewayheisnow.Heusedto

be discontented, yet introverted, meditative, phlegmatic. Now he’s talkingopenly—withpauses,asishiscustom,butconsecutively.

Thingshavenowfoundtheirpermanentplace in theboat.Nochartchest toblock the passage, and you don’t have to run around ducking your head. Thecrewno longerhas swolleneyes.A rhythmhasbeen found, the ship’s routineestablished—ablessingaftertheconfusionofthefirstdays.NeverthelessIfeelasiftherewereathinmembranestretchedbetweenmeandreality.Iseemtobeliving in akindof trance.The consternation that I felt at firstwhenpresentedwith themany pipes, manometers, machines, and valves has at last subsided.Now I know about the various pipes—which cells they lead to and even bywhichvalvestheycanbeshutoff;handwheels,levers,andthetangleofcableshavesortedthemselvesoutintoacomprehensiblesystem,andIfeelarespectforthisworldofmachinerydedicated topractical purposes.Nevertheless, there isstillagreatdealIcanonlyacceptwithastonishment,aspurelymiraculous.

Istilldon’tcomprehendtheSecondEngineer.Ican’ttellwhetherhisfailureto react to the Commander’s provocations is due to obstinacy or lack of wit.Even when the Commander meets him more than hallway with jovial goodhumor,hefailstorespond.He’sprobablycompletelydevoidofimagination,thetypical product of a one-sided education designed to turn out mass-produced,brainless,dutifulperformers,utterlycommittedtotheFührer.His private life I know only in broadest outline, hardlymore than what is

recorded in thepersonnelfile.ButI’mjustas ignorantabout theotherofficerstoo.

I do learn something about the Chief’s home life. His wife is expecting achild. Hismother is dead. During this last leave he visited his father. “Not asuccess,” he informedme. “My father goes in for trays inlaid with iridescentbluebutterflies.Andcut-glass liqueurglasses.And liqueurshemakeshimself.Heusedtobedirectorofawaterworks.Ibroughthimallsortsofsupplies,butherefusedtoeatanyofthem—’foodtakenoutofthemouthsofmenatthefront,’andthatkindofnonsense.Inthemorningshewouldmarchupanddownbesidemybed,upanddown,neveraword,onlysilentreproaches.TheroomIhadtosleep inwasanightmare; theSistineangelsover thebed,apieceofbirchbarkwithpicturepostcardsgluedtoit.Pathetic,really,awidowerlikethat.Thewayhe lives: soup three times aday andonehotdrink in the evenings. It’s funny,everythingabouthim isblue: face,hands,clothes—allblue. In theeveninghelays his clothes over four chairs, picks themup again, lays themdown again.Oncehedesignedasink.He’sstilllivingonthestrengthofittoday.Inventor’sfame.Nowhetwistswiresintovegetablebasketsandbartersthemforfood.Hegrows theyeast forhisbreadhimself.Horrible stuff. ‘Extremelypalatable,’hesays. ‘I’m going to give some to the ladies. It’s important to give pleasure toothers.’That’salsoakindofsloganofhis.He’salwaystryingtoprovehe’snotwhatheseemstobe.Forexample,hethinksofhimselfasagreatlady’sman.Hecarriesawornpicturearoundinhiswallet.‘Mypassion,1926’writtenonit—apublicitystill?Whoknows…”

Inthebowcompartment.Thenewcontrol-roomassistantinquirescautiouslywhattheCommanderislike.Someonefillshimin.“TheOldMan?He’sanoddone.I’malwaysamazedhowhappyheiswhenweputtosea.Itseemshe’sgothimselfengagedtooneofthoseNazibitches.Youcan’tfindoutmuchabouther.Flyer’swidow.Lookslikeshe’stryingouttheservicesonebyone:firsttheAirForce,nowtheNavy.Inanycase,theOldManisn’tgettingmuchoutofit.Mustbe one of those stuck-up types. That’s about all you can make out from thephoto_longlegs,decentenoughfront—sure!Buthedeservessomethingbetter.”“TheysaythoseNazibitchesaren’tsobad.”Schwalle.“Whatmakesyouthinkso?”“TheygetallkindsofspecialinstructionattheReichSchoolforBrides.For

example,theyhavetoholdapieceofchalkintheirassholesandwrite‘otto-otto-

otto’onablackboard.Makesthemsupple.”Generaluproar.

SeveraltimesinthecourseofadaythroughtheopendooroftheradioshackIcatch apassingglimpseofHerrmann, the soundman,who relievesHinrich attheradio.Hehasacomplicatedwayofsqueezinghimselfbetweenthetabletopswhere his instruments stand.There’s almost always a book in his hands.He’stwistedhisheadsetso thatonlyoneearpiece is inplace.ThiswayhecanhearincomingMorsesignalsandstillhaveanearfreefororders.Herrmannhasbeenonboardsincethecommissioningoftheboat.Hisbunkis

in the petty officers’ quarters oppositemine.His father, as I learned from theCommander,wasadeckofficeronacruiser,andwentdownin1917.“Theboyhashadanabsolutelytypicalcareer.Firstbusinessschool,thenthe

Navy. In1935hewassoundmanon thecruiserKöln, thenona torpedoboat,then submarine school, andafter that theNorwegianexpeditionwithme.He’searnedhis IronCrossFirstClassacoupleof times.He’sdue for the friedeggsoon.”Herrmann is a quiet, strikingly pale man. Like the Chief, he moves easily

throughtheboat,asthoughtherewerenoobstaclesinhispath.I’veneverseenhis face relaxed—it’s always tense, giving him a somewhat animal look. Hisbehavioristimidandwithdrawn.Hekeepshimselfapart,evenamongthepettyofficers.HeandEnsignUllmannare theonlyoneswhoneverplaycards; theyprefertoread.IbendoverHerrmann’s tableandfromtheearpieceofhisheadsethear thin

soundslikethesoftchirpingofcrickets.Notoneofus—notevenHerrmann—knowswhetherthemessagebeingtransmittedatthisexactinstant,hundredsorthousandsofmilesaway,hasanythingtodowithus.Herrmann looks up, his eyes alert. He hands out a sheet of paper with a

meaningless sequence of letters on it. The SecondWatchOfficer takes it andquicklygetstoworkdecipheringit.Afterafewminuteshehasthecleartext:“ToCommander-in-ChiefU-boats:

Outofaconvoy,twosteamersfivethousandandsixthousandregisteredtons—sevenhoursdepthchargepursuit—drivenoff—ampursuing—UW.”

TheSecondWatchOfficerentersthismessageintheradiologbookandgivesthebooktotheCommander.TheCommandersignsthemessageandhandsthebook on. The First Watch Officer reads it and initials it as well. Finally theSecond Watch Officer hands it back to Herrmann, whose arm is alreadystretchedoutoftheshackreadytoreceiveit.A typical message, relating in the meagerest detail the story of an attack:

success, narrow escape after seven hours of underwater bombardment, andpursuitdespiteenemydefense.“Eleven thousand gross registered tons—not so bad. UW—that’s Bischof,”

says the Old Man. “Pretty soon he’ll have a sore neck from all thosedecorations.”Not a word about the seven hours of depth charges. The OldMan acts as

thoughtheradiogramhadnevermentionedthem.SomeminuteslaterHerrmannhandsoutthebookagain.Thistimeit’sasignal

fromtheCommander-in-Chieftoaboatstationedinthefarnorth:toproceedatfull speed to another attack area.Apparently a convoy is thought to be in theregioninquestion.InvisiblethreadsofradioarenowdrawingtheotherboattoaspecificpointintheAtlantic,theboatunderremotecontrol,thousandsofmilesfrom theCommander-in-Chief and his broadcasting station. The hunt is beingtaken up out of sight of the enemy. On the huge map in the C-in-C’sHeadquarters someone is moving a small red flag to indicate the boat’s newposition.

Thereareintervalsofcalmduringthedailytrialdives,andtheseareusedforinspectingthetorpedoes.The bow compartment is transformed into amachine shop. The hammocks

are stowedawayand theberths snappedshut.The seamendiscard their shirts.Blockandtacklearesecuredtotheloadingcarriage.Thefloorbreachoftorpedotube number one is opened. The first fish—fat, heavily greased, and dullygleaming—isdrawnpartwayoutofitstube,itsweightbornebythehoistrings.At the command of the torpedo mechanic, everyone hauls on the horizontalhawserasif inatug-of-war.Slowlythehalf-exposedtorpedoemergesfromitstubetohangfreeonthe loadingcarriage,where,despite itsfullweightof1½tons,itcaneasilybemovedforward,backward,ortoeitherside.

Eachmanhashisown special assignment.One tests themotor, another thebearings and axles. Special pipes are attached and the compressed-air tanksfilled, rudder and hydroplane controls tested, the lubrication points filledwithoil.Then,aftermuchshoutingandshoving,thefishisfinallypushedbackintothetube.Thesameproceduregoesforthesecondtorpedo.Thecrewseemstohavehit

itsstride.“Comeon,outof the lady,”roarsDunlop.“This isnodamngoodatall.There’repeople standing in lineoutside and theman simplywon’t budge.Damnpimps—notoneofyouiswillingtowork.”Finallythefloorbreachesaresealedagain,thetackleknockedofftheloading

carriages,thecarriagesremoved,andthetacklestowedaway.Thebunkscanbepulleddownagain.Graduallytheroomistransformedbackintoacavedwelling.Thebow-compartmentcrewisexhausted;themencrouchonthefloorplatesthathidethesecondloadoftorpedoes.“It’sabouttimethesebeastsdidalittlehunting,”Ariocomplains.Noonehastogiveathoughttothe8.8shells.Thehighlysensitivetorpedoes,

however, require constant attention.They’re quite different from shells—morelikelittleshipswithanextremelycomplextechnology.Inadditionto theusualrudderstheyalsohavehydroplanes.Essentiallythey’reself-sufficientminiatureU-boatsloadedwithacargoof800poundsofTNT.Intheolddayspeopleusedtotalkabout“launching”torpedoes,—notabout

firingthem—whichismuchmoretothepoint.Wesimplygivethemapushoutof their tubes and direct them on their way. After that they run on their ownpower—compressedairorelectricity—andfollowapredeterminedcourse.Fourofthefourteentorpedoesareinthebowtubes,oneinthestern:G7A’s,

motor-driven, with compressed-air tanks. Two are for concussion explosion,three for remote-control explosion. On contact with a steamer the percussioncapsdetonatetheloadofexplosivesandtearholesinthesidesofthevessel.Themorecomplicatedandthereforemoresensitiveremote-controldetonators,whichareactivatedmagnetically,explodeattheappropriatedepthjustasthetorpedoispassingunder theship.Thisdetonationcausesapressurewave that strikes thevesselatitsstructurallyweakestpoint.

Thedayspassinconstantalternationofwatchandoff-watch,thesameroutinethatgovernseveryshipafloat.The first watch is obviously the one that worries the Old Man. The First

WatchOfficer seems conscientious enough, but he can’t fool theCommander,whothinkshe’stoolazy.Iamtotaketheplaceofoneoftheguardsonthesecondbridgewatchwhois

apparentlydownwithflu.Thatmeansnightwatchfromfourtoeightship’stime.It’s three o’clock when I wake up, half an hour too early. Silence in the

controlroom.Thebulbshavebeenshaded.AgainIhavetheimpressionthattheroomstretchesawayintoinfinity.Thecontrol-roommatereportsontheweather.“Notmuchwatercomingover,

butcold!”Thatmeansmywoolenscarfandthicksweater,andperhapsevenmywoolenexecutioner’shoodoverthesou’wester.Igetmythingstogether.Theotherbridgeguardsturnup:theBerlinerandtheensign.“Prettydamncold,” thebosun’smatemutters finally. “The secondwatch is

alwaystheshittiest!”Thenlouder,“Fiveminutestilltime!”Atthismoment theSecondWatchOfficercomesthroughthecircularhatch,

sobundledupthatalmostnothingofhisfaceisvisiblebetweenhissou’westerandtheedgeofhiscollar.“Morning,men!”“Morning,Lieutenant!”TheSecondWatchOfficerpretendshecan’twaittogo.He’sthefirsttoclimb

upandout.It’satraditiontosparetheretiringwatchthelastfiveminutes.The FirstWatch Officer, whom we’re relieving, announces the course and

speed.Ihave thestarboardsectoraft.Myeyesquicklyadjust to thedarkness.The

skyisalittlebrighterthantheblacksea,sothehorizonisclearlydefined.Theairisverydamp.Thebinocularsquicklycloudover.“Leatherclothstothebridge!”theSecondWatchOfficershoutsbelow.Butit

isn’tlongbeforethewipersaresaturatedtoo,andtheybegintosmear.SoonmyeyesareburningandIhave toshut themforsecondsata time.Noonesaysaword. The pounding of the engines and the hissing and roaring of the wavesquicklymergeintothegeneralsilence.Nowandagainsomeonebumpshiskneeagainstthetowerwall,producingadullboom.

The port lookout astern gives a sigh and the SecondWatch Officer whirlsaround.“Payattention.Keepyoureyesskinned!”Ifeelanitchingonmyneck,butI’mwrappeduplikeamummy.Can’tscratch

properly.Evenmonkeyscandothatmuch!ButIdon’tdarefumblearoundwithmyclothing.TheSecondWatchOfficergetsuneasy ifyouundosomuchasasinglebutton.HecomesfromasuburbofHamburg.Wassupposedtogotocollegebutgave

it up. Studied banking instead.After that he enlisted in theNavy. That’s all Iknowabout him.He’s always cheerful,well thought of by commanders, pettyofficers,andseamenalike;nosticklerforrules,doeshisjobwithrelaxedmatter-of-factness and no fuss. Although this shows that his ideas of duty are verydifferent from those of the FirstWatchOfficer, he’s still the only personwhomanagestostayonhalfwaydecenttermswiththelatter.The wake is phosphorescent. The night sky black. Black with diamond

embroidery.Thestarsstandoutbrilliantlyintheheavens.Themoonisdull,itslight pale andbleached and tingedwithgreen. It looks spoiled—like a rottingmelon.Visibilityoverthewaterisverybad.Clouds move in front of the moon. The horizon has almost disappeared.

What’s that—Shadows P—Announce them?—Or wait?—Goddam strangeclouds! I stare until my eyes water, until I feel certain that it’s nothing, noshadows.Isniffhard toclearmynoseso that Icansmell thingsmoreeasily.Manya

convoyhasbeencaughtinpitchdarknessbythefarreachingscentofsmokeorescapingfueloilfromadamagedsteamer.“Blackasabear’sbottom,”complainstheSecondWatchOfficer.“Wecould

runstraightintoaTommy!”Wedon’tneedtobeonthelookoutforlights.TheTommiesareextremelycarefulnottoshowany.Eventheglimmerofacigarettecouldspelldestruction.The Zeiss binoculars are heavy. My arms begin to fail. The triceps ache.

Always the same routine: let the glasses hang for a moment on their strap,stretchandwaveyourarmsaround.Thenupwiththeheavyglassesagain,presstheeyepiecesagainstyourbrowbones,supportthebinocularsonyourfingertipstocushionthemagainstthevibrationoftheboat.Andconstantlyscantheninetydegreesofhorizonandseaforsignsoftheenemy.Movetheglassesvery,veryslowlyfromonesideofthesectortotheother,feeloutthehorizoninchbyinch,

thenputtheglassesdownandscanthewholesectorinasingleglance,thenbacktothehorizonfromlefttoright,inchbyinch.Now and again the wind whips spray over us. The forward lookouts bend

down stiffly to shield the lenses with their hands and the upper part of theirbodies.Whenthickcloudsmoveacrossthemoon,thewaterisstainedblack.IknowthattheAtlantichereisatleasttenthousandfeetdeep—tenthousand

feet of water under our keel—but we might as well be gliding with idlingenginesacrossasolidsurface.Timedrags.Growingtemptationtoletone’seyelidscloseandsurrendertothe

motionoftheboat,toenjoybeingcradledupanddown,lulledtosleep.I’mtemptedtoasktheSecondWatchOfficerforthetimebutdecideagainst

it. In theeast a traceofpale, reddish light showsabove thehorizon.The soft,bleachedglowonlycolorsathinbandofskybecauseadriftofblue-blackcloudslieslowoverthehorizon.Alongtimepassesbeforethelightmakesitswayupbehindthem,setting theiredgesaflame.Theforeship isnowrecognizableasadarkmass.Ittakesawhilebeforethereisenoughlightformetobeabletomakeoutthe

individualgratingsontheupperdeck.Graduallythemen’sfacesbecomeclear:weary,gray.Oneofthecrewcomesuptohaveapee.Hedirectshisfaceintothewindand

pissesleewardthroughtherailingofthe“greenhouse.”Ihearthestreamspatteronthedeckbelow.Smellofurine.Again the question: “Permission to come on deck?”One after another they

emerge for a breath of air and a quick pee. The scent of cigarette smoke,fragmentsofconversation.“All we need is for them to sell rubbers, and the ship’s store would be

perfect.”AlittlelatertheSecondWatchOfficerreports.TheCommanderhasappeared

on thebridge—hemusthavecomeupverysilently.AquicksideglanceandIseehisface,redintheglimmerofhiscigarette,butthenIcallmyselftoorder.Don’t listen, don’t let yourself be distracted, don’t move. Don’t remove youreyes from your sector.You have only one duty: to peer until your eyes comerightoutoftheirsockets.“Tubesonetofour—torpedodoorsopen!”

So the Old Man is going to have another firing-control exercise. WithoutturningmyheadIheartheFirstWatchOfficergivetheangleofaim.Thenthereportfrombelow:“Torpedodoorsonetofouropen!”AgainandagaintheFirstWatchOfficerrepeatshismonotonousincantation.ButfromtheOldMannotasound.Thehorizongrowssharper.Intheeastthelighthasspreadoutalongit;soonit

will have encircled the skyline completely. Red fire now glows in the slitbetweenthehorizonandtheblue-blackclouds.Thewindfreshens,andsuddenlyintheeastthegleamingupperportionofthesunappears.Soonsnakesoffieryredaredartingandtwistingacrossthewater.Ihaveonlyabriefglimpseofthesunandthecolorofthesky,forthelightingismadetoorderforenemyflyers.Brightenoughtorevealtheboatanditsfoamingwake,butstilltoodarkforustospotairplanesquicklyagainstthebackgroundofthesky.Goddamgulls!They’reharderthananythingelseonthenerves.Itwouldbe

nicetoknowhowmanyalarmshavebeensoundedontheiraccount.I’mprofoundlygratefulthatIdon’thavethesunlitsector.The FirstWatchOfficer goes on issuing commands. “Tubes one to three—

ready—oneandthreetubesfire—distancetwelvehundred—widthofspreadtwohundredfifty—angle?”“Angleninety,”comesfrombelow.Theoceanisnowfullyawake.Theshortwavesflashwiththefirstlight.Our

bow begins to glitter. In rapid succession the sky now becomes red-yellow,yellow,thenblue-green.Theexhaustgasfromthedieselsextendsitsbluishveiltoafewcloudsofpinktulle.Ourwakethrowsupmyriadsparksofsunlight.Thenextmanturnshisfacetowardme,floodedwiththeredlightofdawn.Far off amid the waves I suddenly discover a few dark points… and then

they’regone.Whatwerethey?Theportlookouthasseenthemtoo.“Porpoises!”Theyapproachlikebadlytrimmedtorpedoes,shootingfirstthroughthewater,

thenthroughtheair.Oneoftheschoolhasnoticedtheboatandtheycomeflyingtowardusasthoughonsignal.Soonwehavethemabeamonbothsides.Theremustbedozensofthem.Theirbelliesshimmerbrightgreen;theirdorsalfinscutthe water like the prows of ships. Effortlessly they keep pace. This isn’tswimming, but a constant flowing succession of leaps and bounds. Thewater

seems tooffer themnoresistance. Ihave to remindmyselfnot towatch them,buttopayattentiontomysector.Short gusts ofwind ruffle thewaves.Gradually the sky clouds over. Light

tricklesdownandseemstobereachingusthroughagigantichorizontalpaneofmilk glass. Soon our faces are drippingwith flying spray.Themotions of theboatincrease.Theporpoisesabruptlyabandonus.

AsIgooff-watchmyeyesseemtobeswollenoutoftheirsockets,attheendoftentacles.Ipressthemwiththepalmsofmyhandsandhavethefeelingthattheyactuallyareallowingthemselvestobepushedbackintoplace.I’msostiffthatIcanscarcelymoveasIpeeloffmywetoilskinsandclamber

exhaustedintomybunk.

Stillhalfanhouruntilchangeofwatch.ForthethousandthtimeIconcentrateonthepatternofveinsinthewoodworkbesidethebunk:nature’sindecipherablehieroglyphics.Thelinesaroundaknotlookliketheairstreamaroundtheliftingsurfaceofaplane.Suddenjarringofthealarmbell.I’moutofmybunkandreelingonthefloorbeforeI’mreallyconscious.The

navigatorhasthethirdwatch.Whatintheworldcanhavehappened?As I try to get into my boots I’m caught in a crowd. The whole room is

suddenly full of frantic commotion. Blue smoke billowing out of the kitchen.Looming through it the faceofoneof thestokers.With forced indifferenceheaskswhat’sup.“Whatever’snottieddown,youdumbpig!”Theboat isstillonanevenkeel.Whatdoes itmean?Analarm—andwe’re

stillhorizontal?“Belayalarm!Belayalarm!”ringsoutfromtheloudspeakers,andfinallythe

reportcomesfromthecontrolroom:“Falsealarm!”“What?”

“Helmsmanhitthealarmbellbymistake!”“Whatashit!”“Whichgoddamassholewasit?”“Markus!”Speechlessnessforawhile,thengeneralrage.“Icouldkickthatswineoverboard.”“Fuckingshit!”“Whatabeat-upasshole!”“That’swhatmygirlsaystoo…”“Shutyourtrap!”“Theyoughttouseyourassforafender.”“Betweencruisersifpossible!”Ismellarealfight.The navigator is beside himself. He doesn’t say a word, but his eyes are

blazing.Luckyfor thehelmsman thathe’ssitting in the tower.Even theChief looks

readytotearhimlimbfromlimbifheevergetshishandsonhim.

Politics is taboo in theOfficers’Mess. Even if I touch on politicalmatterswhen talking privately with him, the Old Man instantly puts an end to anyserious conversation with a mocking twist of the lips. Questions about themeaningofthewarandourchancesareabsolutelyout.Atthesametimethere’sno doubt that when the Old Man takes to brooding all day long, staring atnothing,it’sthepoliticalquestionsthatbotherhim,nothispersonalproblems.He’sgoodatcamouflage.Onlyoccasionallydoesheopenasmallcrackinhis

visor,ventureacrypticremark,andforafewinstantsbetrayhisrealopinion.Especiallywhenenraged—theradionewsalmostalwaysputshiminafury—

he reveals his hatred of Nazi propaganda. “Bleeding the enemy of shippingcapacity,theycallit!Destructionoftonnage.Heinies!Tonnage!It’sgoodshipsthey’re talkingabout.Fuckingpropaganda—turnsus intoofficialexecutioners,wreckers,slaughterers…”

Thecargoesofthesunkenships,whichareusuallymuchmorevaluabletotheenemythantheactualships,hardlyinteresthimatall.Hisheartiswiththeshipsthemselves.Forhimthey’relivingthingswithpulsingheartsofmachinery.Itisabominabletohavetodestroythem.Ioftenwonderhowhecanpossiblycometotermswiththisinescapableinner

conflict. Apparently he has reduced all problems to a single commondenominator:Attacksoasnottobedestroyed.“Submittotheinevitable”seemstobehismotto.Buthewillhavenothingtodowiththerhetoric.Sometimes I feel compelled to coax him out of his reserve, to ask him

whether perhaps he isn’t playing a game like all the others, though in amorecomplicatedfashionthanmost;whetheritdoesn’trequireaninfinitecapacityforself-delusiontobeabletolivewiththeconvictionthatalldoubtsaresilencedbytheconceptofduty.Butheneatlyevadesmeeverytime.MostofwhatI learncomesfromhisdislikesandantipathies.AgainandagainitistheFirstWatchOfficerorthenewengineerwhoannoys

theOldMan.EventhewaytheFirstWatchOfficersitsdownsopreciselyirritateshim.And

there’shisdemonstrativecleanliness.Andhistablemanners.Hehandlesaknifeand fork like dissecting instruments. Every canned sardine is subjected to aformalpost-mortem.Firstheexcisestheribsandbackbonewiththeutmostcare,thengoestoworktoremovetheskin.Nottheslightestscrapisallowedtoescapehim.BythistimetheOldManisbeginningtoglower.In addition to the canned sardines there is a kind of dried sausagewith an

especiallythinskinthatsimplycannotbepeeledoff.ThisisafavoriteobjectfortheFirstWatchOfficer’sdissections.Hecapturestheskinintinyslivers;inthedeep folds it can’tbe loosenedatall.Everyoneelsedevours thesausagesskinandall.Althoughhefiddlesabout,naturallyhecan’tgetitoff.Hefinallycutssomuchofthesausageawayfromaroundtheskinthatthere’salmostnothingleft.TheOldMancancontainhimselfnolonger.“Perfectornamentforthegarbagepail!” But even this is too subtle—the FirstWatch Officer doesn’t get it. Hesimplylooksupexpressionlesslyandgoesonscrapingandcutting.Thenewengineer obviously doesn’t godown anybetter.What disturbs the

Old Man most about him seems to be his vulgar way of grinning and hisarrogance.“SecondEngineerisn’tuptomuch,ishe?”herecentlyinquiredoftheChief.TheChiefmerely rolled his eyes andwobbled his head back and forth

likeamechanicaldummyinastorewindow—agesturehe’dpickedupfromtheOldMan.“Comeon,spititout!”“Hardtotell!ANordictype,astheysay.”“ButaverydamnslowNordictype.JustthemanweneedforChiefEngineer!

Downtoa‘T’!”Andafterawhile,“AllIwanttoknowishowwe’regoingtogetridofhim.”AtthatmomenttheSecondEngineerturnsup.Istudyhimcarefully:chunky,

blue-eyed, theperfectmodel for textbooks.Allhair creamand indolence,he’stheexactoppositeoftheChief.Becausehedoesn’tfeelwelcomeinourmess, theSecondEngineertendsto

seek out the petty officers. The Commander disapproves of such crossing oflinesandglowersathimoutofthecornerofhiseyewheneverhedisappearsintothepettyofficers’mess.Notbeingveryperceptive,theSecondEngineerisquiteunawareofthis,butperchesonthesofawhenthere’sroomandbabblesawaytothe petty officers about this and that. No wonder the atmosphere is less thancongenialwhentheFirstWatchOfficerandSecondEngineereatwithus.Conversations remain entirely neutral. Thorny subjects are avoided, but

occasionallytheOldMangetsoutofcontrol.Onedayatbreakfasthesaid,“ThegentlemeninBerlinseemtobeworkingfullsteamaheadtoinventnewepithetsforHerrChurchill.What’shecalled in today’sofficialnotices?”TheOldManglowers. No answer from the circle, so he answers his own question. “Sot,drunkard,paralytic…Imustsaythatforadrunkenparalytic,he’sgivingusonehelluvatime.”The First Watch Officer sits bolt upright and looks mulish. The world is

suddenly incomprehensible to him. The Chief, in his usual position with hishandsclaspedaroundhisknees,staresataspotbetweentheplatesasthoughitcontainedsomeremarkablerevelation.Silence.TheOldManwon’tlethimselfbeputoff.“What we need is somemusic—perhaps our Hitler Youth leader would be

kindenoughtoputarecordon.”ThoughnoonelooksattheFirstWatchOfficer,hefeelstheremarkismeant

forhimandleapstohisfeet,bright-redintheface.TheOldManthundersafterhim,“’Tipperary,’ifyouplease.”

AstheFirstWatchOfficerreturnsandtheopeningbarsstartblaringthroughthe boat, the Old Man needles him. “The record won’t undermine thefoundationsofyourphilosophy,FirstWatchOfficer,willit?”Thenhesolemnlyraiseshisforefingerandannouncestothetable:“HisMaster’svoice—notours!”

Inthebowcompartment,closetothedoor,Isitonthefloorplates,withmykneesdrawnup.It’stheonlypossiblewaytositinthere,torpedoesunderneath,andmybackagainstthewalloftheQuarters.Conversation flows freely. Nothing like the constrained atmosphere in the

Officers’Mess.Theleadersinthebowcompartmentarealwaysthesame—Arioand Turbo along with Dunlop and Hacker. Some of the less articulate menwithdraw from the arguments—leaving the others to talk and showoff to oneanother—andcreepintotheirbunksandhammockslikenocturnalanimals intotheirburrows.“Onceawhorepissedallovermyback,”avoicecomesfromahammockhigh

up.“Man,thatwasasensation!”“Youslob!”“Sensations!I’llgiveyousensations!”Arioasserts.“Onoursteamerwehada

character who always said, ‘Get a cork with a nail in it and a violin stringattached,pushthecorkupyourassandthenhavesomeonefiddleatuneonthestring’!”“Youcan’tgetmuchmorecomplicatedthanthat,canyou?”“Theysayitgivesyouanamazingbuzzingintheass,”Arioinsists.NowIhearfragmentsfromwayaheadinthebow.“Emmastilldoesn’tknow

whoknockedherup.”“Howso?”“Howso?Christ,areyouthatdumb?Justtryholdingyourbareassagainsta

circularsawandthensaywhichtoothcutyoufirst!”Uproar.

ForthefirsttimeIseethechiefmechanicJohannonthebridge.Hereinthebrightlighthelookstwiceasbleachedandemaciatedashediddownthereintheelectriclightoftheengineroom.Althoughhe’sonlyjustgothere,he’salreadyshiveringasifhebelongsinbed.“Notusedtofreshair,Johann?”Iask.Insteadofanswering,hestaresgrimly

over the bulwarkwith something like disgust. The sight of the sea obviouslymakes him uneasy. I’ve never seen him so sour before. He usually seemscheerful,but that’sbecausehe’s lookingatpipesandmanometers.The silverygleamingfloorplatesoftheE-roomarethetruefoundationoflifeforhim,thefinesmellofoilabalmforhislungs.Butuphere—natureintheraw—thehellwithit!Adisgustedsweepingglancemakesclearthatnodoubtthesightofthesea may be all very well for primitive creatures like sailors, but not forspecialistswho are on intimate termswith highly complicatedmachinery.Hisfaceset,Johanndisappearsbelowinsilence.“Now he’s pouring out his woes to his machines—all about the wicked,

wickedsea,” theSecondWatchOfficersays.“Funnyheinies, thesemachinists.Freshairseemstodamagetheirdelicatelungs,daylightscrewsuptheirretinas,andseawaterispurehydrochloricacid.”“It’snotlikethatwiththeChief,”Iremark.TheSecondWatchOfficerisneveratalossforaquickanswer.“He’ssimply

perverse!”Forme,visitstothebridgearepuresalvation.Luckily two men are allowed topside in addition to the guards. I take

advantageofthisasoftenaspossible.ThemomentIstickmyheadthroughthetowerhatch,Ifeelliberated.Iclimboutofthemechanicalcage,outofconfiningwalls,outofthestenchanddampnessintothelightandthepureair.First I search the sky forweather signs, thengive a quick sweepingglance

aroundthehorizon.ThenIturnmyheadtoandfroandfinallytiltitallthewayback.ThroughafewholesinthecloudsIlookoutintospace.Nothingtodistortmyviewoftheheavens—ahugekaleidoscopethatoffersaconstantsuccessionof imageswitheveryhour thatgoesby. Iwatch thepanoramaof the skyas itchanges: now, for example, it’s deep-blue high overhead.All the holes in therapidly moving cloud cover are filled with deeper blues. Only toward thehorizon is the cover torn.Here the blue is thinner,washed out by the driftingwatervapors.Totheeastatouchofredstillhangsabovethehorizon;initfloatsasingledarkviolet-bluecloud.

Presently,somethingmarvelousoccursbehindtheboat.Halfwayupthevaultofskyamoistpatchofsteel-bluelightspreadsuntilitblendswithafloodofpaleochre, rising from behind the horizon. At first the fringes take on a soiled,greenish tone, but then they are slowly shot through from behind by a dull,luminousbluewiththemerestshimmerofgreenremaining:Veronablue.Atnoontheskybecomesfilledwithcoolsilvery-gray.Thepilesofcloudhave

disappearedandonlyafewsilkycirruscloudsveilthesun,scatteringitslightinsilvery glints and flashes. A quiet pastoral scene unfolds, drawn in nacreous,subtletints—liketheinsideofanoystershell.Intheafternoon,tostarboard,yellowandorangebandsshimmerbehinddark

blueclouds.Theircolorisrich,heavy,almostoily.Thecloudssurgeupwardasthough from a prairie fire: an African sky. I picture table mountains, giraffeacacias,gnus,andantelopes.Farofftoportbesideapileofdirtywoolencloudsarainbowrisesinthesky.

Asecond,paleronearchesoverit.Inthemiddleofthissemi-circlefloatsadarkballlikeanexplosionofshrapnel.Inlateafternoonthestagesetsabovemechangecompletely.Thealterations

are not achieved by drawing a few curtains or changing the shades of color;instead,amagnificentprocessionofcloudsarrives,quicklyfillingtheheavens.As though the pattern of forms were not striking enough, the sun breaks

througharift,shootingobliquespearsoflightintothetumultofclouds.After the evening meal I climb up to the bridge again. The day is dying,

dissolving.Theonlycolorleftisdabbedhereandthereonthecloudsthatfloatinthewesternsky,lineduplikebeadsonanabacus.Soononlyasmallfleecycloudretainingthelastofthelightistheretoholdtheeye.Theglowofthesettingsunlingersawhileabovethehorizon,butthenthattoogrowscold.Nowthedayisfinished.Intheeast,nighthasalreadycome.Thewateristransformedundertheviolet shadows. Itsmurmuring grows louder. Like the breathing of a sleepingman,thewavessweepbybeneaththeboat.

I am always awakened at midnight by the change of watch in the engineroom.Bothwatcheshave topass through thepettyofficers’mess.Forawhileboth doors to the diesel room stand open. The roaring fills the room and theenginessuckingreatdraftsofair,makingthecurtainofmybunkbillowup.One

of themencomingoff-dutyforceshiswaypast theunfolded table,pulling thecurtainallthewayback.Itwillbesometimenowbeforepeaceisrestored.Ikeepmyeyesshutandforcemyselfnottohearthevoices.Butanotherlight

isturnedon.Theglareofthebulbintheceilingstrikesmestraightintheface,andI’mfullyawake.There’sastrongsmellofdieselexhaust.Thepettyofficerswho have been relieved are pulling off their oil-smeared jackets and trousers,taking a few drags of apple juice from their bottles, and climbing into theirbunks,chattinginsubduedvoices.“Big fancy to-do.” I hear Kleinschmidt. “Coffee at my future inlaws, with

vases of flowers and gold-trimmed dishes. Very nice people. The old man’ssixty-fiveandshe’salreadyseventy.Poundcakesandplumcakes.Before that,blackcurrantliqueur,homemade—allfirstclass.Myfiancéewasinthekitchenmakingthecoffee.Iwassittingthereonthesofa—withmyarmssortofspreadout,andIhappenedtopushmyrighthanddownintothecrackbetweentheseatandtheupholsteryattheback—youknow?”“Ofcourse,thenwhat?”“GuesswhatIfishout?”“HowthehellwouldIknow?”Thatmustbethecontrol-roommateIsenberg.

“Don’toverdothesuspense.”“Well,afive-packofcondoms.Threestillinit.Twomissing.Whatd’yousay

tothat?”“You’regreatatarithmetic!”“SoIslammedthepackagedownonthetable.Theoldfolksweregapingat

me.ThenIwalkedout—endofdream!”“You’recrazy!”“Whatd’youmean?MaybeyouthinkIshouldhaveinvitedmyHerrCuntofa

brother-in-lawtojoinusforcoffee,eh?”“Takeiteasy.”“Either—or!There’snothirdwayasfarasI’mconcerned!”“You’reanutcase!Whatmakesyousosureshereally…”“Ohcomeon,don’ttalkcrap.Doyouwantmetobelievetheoldmanneeded

them?”Iturnoveragaintowardtheplywoodwallbutthedooristhrownopenwitha

bangandthelastmanappears,bosun’smateWichmann.Heslamsthedoorshut

behindhimandturnsonasecondbrightlight.Ialreadyknowfromothernightswhatwillhappennext.Butsomedamncuriositymakesmewatchagain.Wichmannstrikesaposeinfrontofthemirroronthedoorandmakesfacesat

himself.Beforebringinghishairforwardoverhisfaceherunshisthumbnailacoupleof times inbothdirectionsover the teethof thecomb.Afteraseriesofattemptshesucceedsingettingthepartexactlyright.Whenhetakesafewstepsback,Icanseethathisfaceisshininginanecstasyofconcentration.Nowcomesthemomentwhenheinspectshimselffromlefttoright,hisheadcockedononeside. Then he goes to his locker and rummages about.When he reappears infrontofthemirrorhehasthetubeinhishand.Hecarefullyappliesthepomadebetween the teethof the comb, thendraws it throughhishair again and againuntilheachievesacompletelyflatsurfacethat’slikeamirror.Finally he packs away his utensils, takes off his jacket, removes his shoes

withoutunlacingthem,androllsintobed,leavingthelighton.Five minutes later I climb down to turn it off. In passing I glance at the

bosun’smate’sbunk:thesplendorisdestroyed.

Friday. Fourteenth Day at Sea. I meet the Old Man in the control room.Affable.Apparentlyhappy tohaveaconversation.This timeImakeastartbyaskinghisexplanationofwhysomanymenvolunteerforU-boatservicedespitetheheavylosses.Theusualminutesforreflection.Then,withpauses:“Youwon’tgetmuchout

ofthechildrenthemselves.Obviouslythey’retemptedbytheaura.We’rewhatyoumightcallthecrèmedelacrème,theDönitzVolunteerCorps.Andthen,ofcourse,there’sthepropaganda…”Longpause.TheOldMankeepsstaringatthefloorplates.Finallyhe’sready

to talk again. “Perhaps they simplycan’t imaginewhat’s aheadof them.Afterall, they’re nothing but blank pages—three years’ schooling, then draftedimmediately, and the usual training. They haven’t seen anything yet—norexperiencedanything—and,besides,theyhavenoimagination.”A ghost of a grin spreads across his face as he turns halfway toward me.

“Footsiogging around with a gun over your shoulder—can’t say I’d find itexactly inspiring either. How would you like to go plowing through thecountrysideinjackboots?Godknows,we’rebetteroffinthatrespect.Theygive

us a ride.We don’t have to drag ourselves along getting blisters on our feet.Regular meals—mostly hot food.Where else can you find that? Besides, wehaverealbunks.Andexcellentheating.Andlotsofgoodinvigoratingseaair…And then shore leaves, with stylish marine uniforms and all the prettydecorations.Ifyouaskme,we’rebetteroffthantheordinarytroops:certainlyaU-boatcrewiswayaheadoftheNavyshit-shovelers.Everything’srelative,afterall.”Attheword“shit-shovelers”Iseemyselfpracticing“individualreviewwith

salutation.”Thedivisioncommanderroarstheorderatthetopofhisvoice.Eachroarjerkshimupontiptoe.“KindlygetyourgoddamrifleupfasterorI’llhavethepissstreamingoutofyournoseandearsbeforeI’vefinishedwithyou!”Andbeforethat,laborservice…AugustRittervonKaravecwasthenameof

thebastardtheyassignedtousaschief instructorafterhehadbeentransferredseveral times for disciplinary reasons. “Whenproperly commanded, a divisionshould be distinguishable from the terrain by nothing but the whites of theireyes”was his basic principle.By putting us throughwheelingmaneuvers andparademarchinabog,hecouldgetusplasteredfromheadtofootwithice-coldmud in fiveminutes flat; therewasn’taboot leftonanyone’s foot—theywerestuckintheslime,andweweresoakedtotheskin.Twohourslaterthismadmanhad uniform inspection and found something in everyone to bellyache about.Whichmeant:Dumpallbelongingsinasingleheapinthemiddleoftheroom,andthenlettwentymensortouttheirpossessionsagain.As“punishment”therewas also the great wheeling maneuver performed on a slope. This was evenworsethanthebog,becausethemenonthewingsalmostbursttheirlungsracinguphill. And that bastard made sure that everyone had to take his turn on theoutside…ThecynicalgrinwasgonefromtheOldMan’sfacebeforehepickedupfrom

wherehe’dleftoff.“Perhapsyoucanonlydo thiskindof thingwithkids, because they’re still

whatyoumightcallunderexposed.Noties.Theonepersontomakeitoutofatightspotisalmostalwaysanofficer.Withawifeandchildrenathome!Funnything.Oncewewerepickingupseamenfromasunkendestroyer—oneofours—pulledthemoutofthedrink.Wemusthavegottheresomethingliketwohoursafter she sank,which is pretty soon as these thingsgo. Itwas summer, so thewaterwasn’t too cold.Butmost of the young oneswere hanging in their lifepreservers—alreadydrowned.They’dsimplygivenup—lettheirnecksgolimp,

althoughtherewasonlyamediumtoheavysea.Onlytheolderonesstruggled.Therewas one of them—over forty and seriouslywounded—and he survivedeven though he’d lost a lot of blood. But the eighteen-year-olds who werecompletelyuninjured—theydidn’t.”TheOldManissilentforafewmoments,apparentlysearchingforthebestwordstosumitallup.Then:“Theolderonesgenerallygetthrough—thekidswouldrathergiveup.”TheChiefhasarrived,andglancesatmeforamomentinastonishment.The

Commandergoeson.“Actually we ought to be able to get along with a lot fewer men. I keep

imaginingaboat thatwouldonlyneedacrewof twoor three.Exactly likeanairplane.Basicallywehaveall thesemenonboardbecause thedesignershavefailedtodoaproperjob.Mostofthemenarenothingbutlinksinachain.Theyfillthegapsthedesignershaveleftinthemachinery.Peoplewhoopenandclosevalves or throw switches are not what you’d call fighting men. I can’t listenthese dayswhen theC-in-CU-boats tries to get everyone all excitedwith hisadvertising slogans: ‘Attack—Defeat—Des troy’—it’s all pure bullshit. Whodoestheattacking?TheCommanderandnooneelse.Theseamendon’tseesomuchasatraceoftheenemy.”TheOldManpauses.Noneedtosayanythingnow.Nopromptingnecessary

today.“Damn shame old Dönitz has joined the bigmouths. We swore by him at

first,”hesaysinalowvoice.I’veknownforsometimewhat’sbeeneatingtheOldMan.Hisrelationswith

theCommander-in-Chiefhavenotbeengoodsincehislastreport.“WeusedtoseehimasakindofseaMoltke.Butnowit’s‘Oneforall,allfor

one’—’One Reich, one Volk, one Führer’—’The Führer has his eye onyou’—’The Führer, the Führer, the Führer’… You can hardly bear to listen.Always stuck in the same groove. And then he keeps going on about the‘Germanwoman,ournoblestpossession.’‘WhenIleavetheFührerIalwaysfeelamerenothing.’Thatsortofthing’senoughtoflooranyone.”TheOldManhastalkedhimselfintorealbitterness.TheChiefstaresstraightaheadandpretendshe’sheardnothing.“Tsch, the volunteer crews!” The Old Man is back where he started.

“Comradeship—thetogethernessofallmenaboard—’swornfellowship’—that’snot just hot air, as a matter of fact. It really attracts people. And more than

anythingelsesodoesthefeelingofbelongingtoanelite.Youonlyhavetolookat the fellows on leave. They swell up like pouter pigeons with their U-boatinsigniaontheiruniforms.Seemstohavesomeeffectontheladiestoo…”

The loudspeaker crackles. Then: “Second watch stand by!” This time theorder applies tome too. I’mgoing to standonewatchas stoker, attending theexhaustdoorsandthediesels.TheChiefhasgivenmecottonformyears.“Sixhoursofdieselnoiseisquite

enough,Icantellyou.”ThesuctionofthemachinesholdsthedieselroomdoorsotightthatIneedall

mystrengthtoopenit.Immediatelythenoiseoftheenginesbreaksovermelikeahailofblows.Thestaccatochatterofthepushrodsandrockerarmsformsthepercussion accompaniment to the contained torrent of explosions within thecylinders and the deep thundering roar issuing, I assume, from the blower.However, only the starboard diesel is running, at half speed, while chargingbatteries;theportengineissilent.Sothedeeproarcan’tbetheblowerafterall,sinceit’sonlyusedtoincreasetheairsupplywhenthemachinesarerunningatfullspeed.The diesels reach almost to the rounded ceiling. Along the flank of the

starboard engine the links between the rocker arms and push rods move inperfect unison, sending out wave after wave of vibrations over the hugemachine.ThechiefmechanicJohannisonduty.Forthetimebeinghepaysnoattention

to me. He’s concentrating on the behavior of the tachometer; its needle ismoving sharply. All of a sudden it will jump several marks on the scale andshivernervouslyasour screwsmeetvarying resistance in the roughsea.Evenwithoutthetachometer,Iwouldbemoreawarehereintheafterpartoftheshipthaninthecontrolroomofhowthewavesclingtotheboat,thenreleaseitandhurlitforwardagain.Thescrewslaboratfirst,thentheboatfightsitswayfree,andtheyraceallthefaster.Johann checks the oil pressure and the cold-water pressure, one after the

other, thenwith theabstracted lookofa labworkerhe reaches for the fueloilline,whichbranchesoffunderthelubricatingpumps,andtestsitstemperature.Finallyhemountsthesilvery,gleamingstepthatrunsalongthesideofthediesel

and touches the rising and falling rocker-arm hinges: all with very slow,preciselycalculatedmovements.He shouts my instructions at me: see to it that nothing gets too hot, keep

feelingthecold-waterpipesandinspectingtherockerarmsonthepushrods,thewayhe’sjustdoneit.Andifhegivesthesign,shuttheexhaustgasdoors.I’vewatchedthisprocedureoftenenough.Johann returns to the control station, cleanshis handswithbrightly colored

cottonwaste,reachesintoachestbesidehissmallstandingtableforabottleofjuice,andtiltshisheadbacktotakeacoupleofdeepgulps.Thevibratingjointsdripwithoil.Ifeelthemoneaftertheother,absorbingthe

heavyimpactthroughmyhand.Allofthemareuniformlywarm.Theexplosionsin the cylinders follow one another in uninterrupted sequences. I repeat tomyself:intakestroke,compressionstroke,powerstroke,exhauststroke.After a quarter of an hour Johann opens the door to the galley and turns a

hand wheel on the ceiling. At the same time he roars an explanation. “I’mclosing—the—bottomvalveof thediesel—nowit’s—drawingair—frominsidetheboat—givesafine—throughdraft!”Anhourlater thechiefmechanicleavesthecontrolstationandcomesalong

the gangway between the two engine blocks. One after another, he opens theinspectionpetcocksonthesideofthedieselthat’sinuse.Eachbelchesastreamof fire. Johann nods, reassured: ignition in all cylinders, everything in perfectrunning order. Funny, I think tomyself, smoking is forbidden, but this flame-throwingisallright.Swaying like a tightrope walker, Johann makes his way back again to the

control station—rubbinga fewoil flecks fromapolished surface inpassing—andcleanshishandsagainwithahandfulofcottonwaste.Thewasteistuckedbetweenthepipesnearthedoor.Afterawhilehereachesoverhisheadandturnsonahigh-pressurevalvetoincreasetheflowoffueloil.Thenheglancesattheelectrical telethermometer,which registers the temperature in all the cylindersandthecombinedexhaustpipes.Usingapencilstubsoshortthathehastoholdit with the tips of his fingers, he makes his entries in the engine-room log:consumptionofoil,temperatures,variationsinpressure.The helmsman, just off duty and both arms full of wet oilskins, comes

crashing through thedoormoreby suction thanhisownmomentum, squeezespastme,andworkshiswayaftalongthesupportbarsofthedieseltowardtheE-motors,wherehehangsthedrippingclothesaroundthesterntorpedotubetodry.

Thedieselmateissittingonalowtoolchestoppositemeinfrontoftheportdieselcontrolstation,poringoverabatteredbook.Hismachineisidlesohehasnothing to do.He has to stay on duty, however, because themachinemay becalleduponatanymoment.Again and again I sway along the polished iron runway on the side of the

starboarddiesel.Thegaugesshownormalpressure.Thechiefmechanicsignalstome:IamtositinthedoorwaytotheE-room.

The brown bagswith the escape gear hang close to the door on switchboxes.Theyareanoppressivereminderthatthecontrolroomandthebridgearealongwayoff.Alongescaperoutetothetowerhatch.Notapleasantpostforsomeonewitha lively imagination.Youcantellyourselfadozentimesthat itmakesnodifferencewhethertheescaperouteislongorshortoncetheboathasbeensenttothebottom.Thefeelingofbeingshutupallthewayinthesterneatsawayatyournervesjustthesame.Besides, the boat can just as easily be wrecked on the surface—by being

rammed,forinstance—andinthatcaseeveryoneknowsthattheguardsondeckand the men in the control roommay be rescued, but the engine-room crew,never.Abellshrillsabovethenoiseofthediesel.Aredlampgoeson.Astaboffear.

Thedieselmateisonhisfeet.What’sup?Johannmakesareassuringgesture.Iunderstand:theportdieselhasbeenorderedintoaction.NowIhavesomethingtodo:opentheexhaustgasventsfortheportdiesel.Thedieselmatecouplestheengineto thedrivingshaft.Compressedairhisses into thecylinders.Thechiefmechanichasalreadyopenedthefuel-oilthrottle.Rockersclick,andthereisthecrack of the first explosion. The push rods begin to move: the port diesel isroused from inactivity. Ignition of all cylinders, and already their noise isblendinginwiththesoundofthestarboardengine.Anotherstretchwithnothingtodo.Thegaugesshowthattheenginesaregettingalltheyneed:fuel,air,andwaterforthecoolingsystem.Threehoursofthewatchareover:halftime.Theairhasbecomerapidlyhotterandheaviersincetheportdieselhasbeen

running.Atteno’clockCookiebringsaroundapailoflemonade.Idrinkthirstilyout

oftheladle.

Johann jerkshis thumbsup toward theceiling: time toshut theexhaustgasdoors.Wedon’tdareneglectthem.Theycovertheexhaustlinesfromthedieselswhilewearesubmerged,andtheymustbeabsolutelywatertighttopreventanyfloodingof theengines.Whenwe’re travelingon thesurface,however, there’sincompletecombustionintheengines.Thisleadstoabuildupofcarbondepositsandcouldpreventthedoorsfromshuttingtightduringadive.Atthebeginningof thewar, as amatterof fact, boatswere lost simplybecause thedoorswerejammedopenbytheresidue,andwaterrushedintotheboat.Topreventthiswe“grindin”thedoorseveryfourhours.Theredlightflashesonagain.Theengine-roomtelegraphjumpstohalfspeed

ahead. The chief mechanic pulls the throttle up. Less fuel is reaching thecylinder pumps and the starboard diesel begins to turn more slowly as therhythmofthecombustionfalters.Johannputsthethrottleatzeroandthedieselstops. He raises his fist, signalingme to close the outer gas exhaust door byturningthebighandwheelontheceiling.Iseizethespokesandturnwithallmymight,drivingtheexhaust-doorplatebackandforthagainstitshousingtoscrapeoffallthecarbondeposits.Backandforth,backandforth,untilJohannletsmestop.Bathedinsweatandpantinghard,Istandthereasthestarboarddieselsprings

tolifeagain.Shortlythereaftertheportdieselisstoppedandthesameprocedurebeginsagain. Inowhavenorealstrength leftandhave touseeverymuscle toturnthespokes.Sweatisstreamingdownmyface.The two diesels haven’t been running longwhen the chiefmechanic’s face

goestense.Helistenstothepulseoftheenginesasifturnedtostone.Reachesforpocketflashlightandscrewdriverandpusheshiswaypastme.Closetotheafter door he lifts a floor plate, shines his light down, andbeckonsme closer.Underneath is an even wilder confusion of pipes, filters, valves, and faucets,Thisispartofthewater-coolingandoil-lubricationsystemandthefuelsupply.NowIsee it too:oneof thepipes is releasinga finesprayofwater.Johann

glancesatmeeloquently,thenworkshiswaybetweenthepipes,twistinglikeanacrobat,andisatthetroublespotwithhistools.Afterawhilehehandsmesomenutsandbolts.He’sremovedapackingfromthepipe.Ican’tunderstandwhathe’sroaringatme;hehastoraisehisheadfromthetangleofpipesbeforeIgetit.Thedieselmateistocutanewpacking.Suddenlyeveryonehassomethingtodo. The repair is not a simple one. A large black patch of sweat appears onJohann’sback.Finallyhehaulshimselfoutofthejungle,smearedwithoil,and

winks—sowhateverhedidhasworked.Buthowdidhedetect thefault in thefirstplace?Hemusthaveasixthsenseforhisengines.Atfiveminutestotwelvethenewwatchcomesin.Onelastmouthfulofapple

juice,rubthehandswithcottonwaste,andthennothoughtbuttogetoutofthiscaveofanengineroomandintothecontrolroomforthefirstgulpoffreshair.

Fifteenth Day at Sea. Two weeks. The waves today are low. They collidehelter-skelterwithoutanyclearsenseofover-allmovement.Theboatridesthemuneasily,unabletosettleintoanyrhythm.Anoldgroundswell,whichcanbefeltat long intervals under the choppy surface, adds yet another variation to themotion.For days we’ve seen nothing except one barrel, a few boxes, and, once,

hundredsofbottle corks—asight thatbaffledeven theCommander. “Can’tbeleftoverfromabinge—justcorksandnobottles—it’scrazy!”I’monwatchwiththenavigator.Mybicepsatleastarebeingkeptintraining.

I can feel everymuscle inmy upper arm all theway down intomy shoulderblades from holding up the heavy binoculars. I’m lowering the glasses moreoften than I did in the first hour of thewatch.The navigator can hold his forhoursatatime:you’dthinkhe’dbeenbornwithhisarmsfixedatrightanglestohisbody.“Weleadwhatyoumightcalladoublelife,”hebegins,outofnowhere.Idon’tknowwhathe’sgettingat.Thenavigatorisanythingbutarticulate,so

hiswordsemergehesitantlyfrombetweenhisleathergloves.“Halfonboardandhalfashore,sotospeak.”Hewantstosaysomethingmorebutobviouslycan’tfindtherightwords.Webothbusyourselveswithscanningoursectors.“Theway it is,” the navigator finally resumes, “herewe are, dependent on

ourselves—nomail, no communications, nothing. Butwe still have a kind oflinkwithhome.”“Yes?”“For example, there are things that bother you. You keep wondering how

thingsaregoingathome.Andevenmore,howyourfolksare.Theydon’tevenknowwherewereallyare,swanningaroundthewaywedo.”

Anotherpause.Then,“Whenweputtosea”—heletsthesentencedangleforawhile—”we’re already half gone. If something really happens to the boat, it’smonthsbeforetheyannouncetheloss.”Silence.Thenheabruptlybeginsagain.“Ifaman’smarried,itmakeshimas

goodasuseless.”Thisutteredasamaximbeyonddispute.Finally light dawns. He’s talking about himself. But I pretend we’re still

talkinggeneralities.“I don’t know,Kriechbaum,whetherwedding ringsmatter all thatmuch…

HowlongisittheChiefhasactuallybeenmarried?”“Only a couple of years. Stuck-up kind of lady—blond hair, with a

permanent.”Nowhe’stalkingeasily,withouthesitation,relievedthatit’snolongerabout

hisownproblems.“Shedeliveredasortofultimatum.‘Notgoingtoletmylifebe all messed up,’ that sort of thing. Not that she looks as if she’ll lack forentertainment while we’re promenading around out here. Nice mess for theChief.Nowshe’spregnant,too.”Anothersilence,thenwhenKriechbaumstartsuponcemorehe’sashesitant

ashewasatfirst.He’sobviouslytalkingabouthimselfagain.“Youfindyourselfcarryingsomuchballastaround—betternottothinkaboutittoomuch!”Wedevoteourselvestothehorizonagain.Iscouritwithmyglasses,inchby

inch.ThenIrestthebinocularsandlookoutacrosstheseaandskytorelaxmyeyemuscles.ThenIsquintandraisetheglassesagain.Alwaysthesameroutine:searchhorizon,lowerbinoculars,takealookallaround,raisebinocularsagain.Aheadof theboat, twopoints toport, there’sa fogbank—aclumpofdirty,

gray-green wool—clinging to the horizon. The navigator concentrates on thatarea.Fogbanksarealwayssuspect.Agoodtenminutespassbeforehetakesupthethreadagain.“Perhapsit’sthe

onlythingtodo—awaywiththewholemenkenke!”Thisgoesaroundinmybrainforawhile:“Menkenke”—isn’tthatJewishfor

“bag of tricks” or something?Where can he have come across“menkenke”?“Fisimatenten”—that’s another one—for “fuss.”“Menkenke”…“fisimatenten”—you could go nuts speculating over things likethat.I remember Ensign Ullmann. He has his troubles too. Ullmann is from

Breslau.Withhissnubnoseandthosesparsefrecklesscatteredalloverhisface,

helooks likeafourteen-year-old.At thebaseIsawhimonceinhisbluedressuniform.Withhisbigpeakedcaponhishead,helookedlikeaclowndoneupinacostumethathadbeenboughttoolargesohecouldgrowintoit.Theensign ispopular.He seems tobea tough fellow.Actually,he’snot so

muchsmallascompact,and,viewedcloseup,he’solderthanhelooksatfirst:Hedidn’tgetallthosecreasesinhisfacejustfromlaughter.One day when I was alone with him in the petty officers’ mess he started

behavingoddly:fiddlingaimlesslywiththeutensilsonthetable,pushingthemhereandthere,layingaknifeparalleltoaforkandglancingupfromtimetotimetocatchmyattention.Irealizedthathewantedtotellmesomething.“D’youknowtheflowerstorenexttothecafé,Al’AmiPierrot?”“Of course, and the two salesgirls. Pretty thing, Jeannette, and what’s the

otherone’sname?”“Françoise,” the ensign said. “As a matter of fact, I’m engaged to her—

secretly,ofcourse.”“Tst!”Isputtered insheerastonishment:our littleensignwithhisporcupine

haircutandhisoutsizeddressuniformengagedtoaFrenchgirl!“She’snice,”Isaid.The ensignwas sitting on his bunk, hands palms up on his thighs, looking

helpless—hisconfessionseemedtohavewornhimout.Graduallyitallcameout.Thegirlispregnant.Theensignisnotsonaïveasto

beunawareofwhat itwouldmean forher tohaveachild.Weare theenemy.Collaboratorsusuallygetshortshrift.TheensignknowshowactivetheMaquisare.Thegirlobviouslyknowsitevenbetter.“Besides,shedoesn’twantthechild!”hesaid,butsohesitantlythatIasked,

“Well?”“Notifwegetback!”“Hmm,”Isaid.Embarrassed,Icouldthinkofnothingbetterthan,“Ullmann,

that’s no reason to be so depressed. Everything will straighten out. You’reimaginingthings!”“Yes,”wasallhesaid.

Upwith theglasses again.Theyought tomake them lighter.Thenavigatorbesidemesaysbitingly,“ThegentlemenatHeadquartersoughttoseeallthisjustonce—nothingbutoceanandnota traceof theenemy.Icanjust imaginehowtheypictureit:weputtosea,runaroundforafewdays,andheypresto—herecome the freighters, sailing along, crowds of them and all loaded to thegunwales.Adaringattack—fireeverythingwe’vegot.A fewdepthcharges inreturn just to teach us not to get too uppity. The victory pennants on theperiscopeforalotoffattankers,andtieupatthepiergrinningfromeartoear.Brassbandsanddecorations,ofcourse.Buttherereallyoughttobeafilmofallthis:closeupsofpureshit.Horizonbaldasababy’sbottom,acoupleofclouds—and that’s it. Then they could film the inside of the boat:moldy bread, filthynecks,rottenlemons,tornshirts,sweatyblankets,and,asagrandfinale,allofuslookingutterlypissed-off.”

SixteenthDayatSea.TheChiefseemstobeinagoodmoodtoday.Probablybecausehesucceededinmakinganespeciallycomplicatedrepairononeoftheengines.He’sevenpersuadedtowhistleforus.“Oughttobeinvaudeville!”saystheOldMan.Ionlyhavetoclosemyeyesforasecondtoseeeverydetailofthescenein

theBarRoyal,withMerkel’sChieftryingtoteachmetowhistleontwofingers.The art ofwhistling—in this flotilla, at least—is apparently a specialty of theengineers.How long ago it seems. Themusicians with their empty, staring eyes, and

crazy Trumann. Thomsen, lying in his own piss, bellowing slogans through acloudofbubbles.“Haven’theardfromTrumanninalongtime,”theOldMansayssuddenly,as

thoughhe’dreadmythoughts.“Hemusthaveputoutlongago!”NothingfromKortmanneither,norfromMerkel.We have only heard Kallmann and Saemisch by accident, when they were

orderedtoreporttheirpositions.PlusthereportsthatourradiomanalsopickedupofFlechsig’sandBechtel’sboats.“Thisisgoingtobeashittymonth,”growlstheOldMan.“Theothersdon’t

seemtobehavinganyluckeither.”

Another hour and ten minutes until dinnertime—seventy minutes, fourthousandtwohundredseconds!TheradiomanHinrichcomesinanddeliversamessageaddressedspecifically

tous.TheChieftakestheslipofpaper,getsthedecipheringmachineoutofthelocker,puts itdownamongtheplates,carefully tests thesetting,andbegins tostrikethekeys.Thenavigatorturnsupasifbyaccident,andwatchesoutofthecornerofhis

eye.TheChiefpretendstobecompletelyabsorbed.Notamusclemovesinhisface.FinallyhewinksatthenavigatorandgivesthedecipheredradiogramtotheCommander.It’sonlyanordertoreportourposition.TheCommanderandthenavigatordisappearintothecontrolroom.Won’tbe

longbeforetheradiomanspitsoutabriefsignalwithourcoordinates.

IVFRIGGINGAROUND:2

Theboatcontinuestowanderaroundwithitscargooffourteentorpedoesandonehundredtwentyshellsforthe8.8millimetercannon.Onlytheamountof3.7ammunitionhasbeenslightlyreducedbypracticefiring.Andagooddealofour114 tons of oil has gone. We are also the lighter by a fair amount of ourprovisions.SofarwehavecontributednothingtothewareffortofGreaterGermany.We

haven’tinflictedtheslightestdamageontheenemy.Wehaveaddednolustertoourname.Wehaven’tloosenedAlbion’sdeathgrip,oraddedasinglenewleaftothelaurelsoftheGermanU-boatCommand;blahblahblah…Wehavemerelystoodwatch,gobbled food,digested it, inhaledbadsmells,

andproducedafewourselves.And we haven’t even got off any misses. They would at least have made

space in the bow compartment. But all the torpedoes are still here, expertlytended,greasedtoperfectionandregularlytested.Theskygrowsdarker,andthetatteredsheetsofwaterthathangfromthenet

guardsaftereveryplungeoftheboatareasgrayaslaundrywashedinwartimesoap.Allaroundusthereisnothingbutgrayongray;nolineofdivisionbetweenthegrayoftheseaandthegrayofthesky.Higherup,wherethesunoughttobe,thegrayisonlyashadelighter.Theskylookslikewatered-downgruel.Even the foam on the occasional breaking wave is no longer white. It is

soiled,secondhand.Thehowlofthewindsoundsliketheyowlingofakickeddog,spiritlessand

depressing.Weareheadingagainst thesea.Theboatstampsalonglikearockinghorse:

upanddown,upanddown.The strainofpeeringaheadbecomesa torment. Ihave to keep cheeringmyself up lest I fall prey to the sick hopelessness thatengulfsusallandsinkintoapathy.Thegray light seems filtered throughgauzeandweighson theeyelids.The

waterymistmakes itdimmer still.There isnothing solid in this soup tocatchone’sattention.

Ifonlysomethingwouldhappen!Ifonly thedieselswouldrunatfullspeedforawhile, if theboatwould throwupabowwaveagain insteadof jouncingaround at this soul-destroying jogtrot. Head stuffed with cotton, heavy limbs,achingeyes.Shittysea,shittywind,friggingaround!

As the oldestman in the bowcompartment, theE-stokerHagen commandsuniversalrespect.Andheobviouslyknowsit.InthedimlightallIcanseeofhisfaceiseyesandnose.Thehigh,curledendsofhismustachereachalmosttohiseyelids.Foreheadhiddenundera thick thatchofhair.Hisblackbeard is thickandlong,sincehedidn’tsacrificeitevenduringourtimeinport.Fromafavoritephraseofhis,he’sknownonboardas“thePlain,StraightforwardFellow.”Healreadyhassevenpatrolsbehindhim,sixofthemonanotherboat.“Tsch!”saysHagen,andatonceeveryoneissilent.I stretch my legs, brace my back against the frame of a lower bunk, and

wonderwhat’stocome.Hagen savors this expectancy to the full, wipes the palms of his hands

thoroughlyonthehairofhischest,anddrainstheteapotintohiscup.Relaxed,hethensavorshistea,swallowingitingreatgulps.“Well,outwithit,OGraciousOne!Speak,LordforThyservantheareth!”“IwasoncesoangryattheTommies!—”“…inmyplain,straightforwardway!”Thislastfromabunk;Hagenanswers

itwithaglanceoftrulytheatricalcontempt.“Itwashellishweather—justlike—today,andtheygotusbythenutsoffthe

Orkneys,agreatbatchofescortvesselsstandingoverus.Nodecentdepthunderourkeel.Nochanceofescapingunderwater.Surprisepackagesofdepthchargesalldaylong—”He takes amouthful of tea, but doesn’t swallow it immediately. Instead he

swishesitnoisilyaroundafewtimesbetweenhisteeth.“Nicebombingjob.ThentheTommieswentquiet.Simplywaiteduptherefor

ustosurface.Thesecondnight,ourCommanderwentmad,usedeverytrickheknew, including the thin silhouette, and suddenly we’re up and away. TheTommiesmust havebeen sleepingon the job. I can’t understand it evennow.

Theverynextdaywesankadestroyer.Nearlyranintoitinthefog.Hadtofireatalmostpoint-blankrange.”Hagenfalls intoa trance,andsomeoneplaysmidwifeagain.“Comeon,out

withtherest!”“Wegotthedestroyeratanglezero!”Hagendemonstrateswithtwomatches.

“Here’stheenemydestroyer,andhere’sourboat.”Hearrangesthematcheswiththeir heads facing each other. “I was the first to spot her—in my plain,straightforwardway!”“Nowwe’regettingit—didn’tItellyou?”Thevoicefromthebunkagain.Hagencutsthestoryshort.Pushingthematchesaround,hedemonstratesthe

attack.“Sankinamatterofseconds.”Hereachesforthematchrepresentingthedestroyerandbreaksitintwo.Then

getsupandtramplesitunderhisboot.The helmsmanLittleBenjamin pretends to be fascinated.He gazes straight

intoHagen’sface,simultaneouslytryingtomakeoffwithapieceofbreadthatHagen’sjustbutteredforhimself.ButHagenisonthealertandslapshisfingerssmartly.“Notsofastwithmybreadandbutter.”“My mistake,” Little Benjamin says apologetically, “as the hedgehog

remarkedwhenhegotupoffthetoiletbrush.”Control-roomassistantTurboalsohassomethingtocontribute.He’scutouta

cigar and a plum from the advertisements in a magazine and pasted themtogethertomakeanobscenemontagethathenowproudlyhandsaround.“Swine!”saysHagen.

For three days and three nights the radioman has picked up nothing butposition reports from other boats. No victory announcements. “Never knownsuchatotalwashout!”saystheOldMan.“Absolutebottom.”

The sea seethes and boils. Thewind keepswhipping up the surface into agray-white plain. Not a single patch of the usual’ beer-bottle green, only dull

whiteandgray.Whenourbowworks itswayfreeof thewaves itseemstobefestoonedonbothsideswithdrippingdecorationsofstucco.Broodingbleakly at breakfast time, theOldMan simply forgets to chew. It

isn’tuntil thestewardenters toclear themealawaythathesuddenlycomestowithastart,moveshislowerjawbusilyforafewminutes,thendriftsoffagainwith his thoughts. Finally he pushes his plate away indifferentry and pullshimselftogether.Hegivesusafriendlyglanceandopenshismouthtospeakbutseems unable to find a single word. He saves himself with a few officialannouncements: “09.00, practice dive; 10.00, instruction for petty officers!Maintaincourseuntil12.00.”Sameoldthing.The First Watch Officer is not the least of the causes of the Old Man’s

depression. The expression on the man’s face—at best faintly critical, oftenopenly contemptuous—grates on the Old Man’s nerves. His pedanticmannerismsunsettleallofus,bothonwatchandoff,inmuchthesamewayasadriver who sticks exactly to the rules produces chaos in traffic. Most of all,however,itishisthinlyconcealedpoliticalconvictionsthatirritatetheOldMan.“HereallyseemstohatetheTommies,”theOldMansaysjustaftertheFirst

WatchOfficerhasgoneonduty.“Thoroughlyindoctrinated.Atleasthe’sgotitallworkedouttohisownsatisfaction.”

I’d give a lot for a half hour’s walk—or a cross-country run through thewoods.Mycalfmuscleshavegoneslack.Myexistenceconsistsofnothingbutlyingdown,standingup,andsittingstill.Somehardphysicalexercisewouldbea big help. Felling trees, for instance. The very thought makes me smell thepines.Icanalmostpictureorange-redchipsoffelledtimber,thecabinsweusedtobuildourselves,heartherustlingofreeds,seemyselfhuntingwaterrats.Deargod…The radiohaspickedupamessage.Webehavewith elaborate indifference,

yeteachofusislongingforaradioorderthatwillputanendtoallthisfriggingaround.Afteracontemptuousglanceatthedecodingmachine,theCommanderreads the slip, noiselessly moving his lips, and disappears without a wordthroughthecirculardoor.Welookatoneanother.

Plaguedbycuriosity,Imoveintothecontrolroom.TheCommanderisbentovertheseachart.ForthemomentImustwaitinvain.Inhislefthandheholdstheslipandwithhisrighthe’smanipulatingthedividers.“It’s possible—not altogether out of thequestion,” I hear himmurmur.The

FirstWatchOfficercannolongerenduretheuncertaintyandbegsfortheslipofpaper.“ConvoyinSquareXY.Zigzagcoursearoundsixtydegrees,speedeightknots—UM.”OneglanceatthechartandIfeelsurewecanreachSquareXY.The navigator clears his throat, looking totally indifferent, and asks the

Commander for the new course. You’d think the radiogram had brought usnothingmorethanthenewretailpriceofpotatoes.TheCommanderisn’tgivingawayanythingeither.“Waitandsee,”hesays.Everyone falls silent. The Chief bores into a tooth with his tongue. The

navigatorbecomesabsorbed inhis fingernailswhile theCommandermeasuresanglesandlaysoffdistanceswiththedividers—theproblemofinterception.ThenavigatorpeepsovertheOldMan’sshoulderasheworks.Igetmyselfa

fewprunesfromtheboxandmovethepitsbackandforthinmymouth,tryingtopick them clean.The control-roommate has nailed amilk can to thewoodenwallforthepits.It’salreadyhalffull.Minearebyfarthecleanest.UM—that’sMarten’sboat.Marten,whousedtobetheOldMan’sFirstWatch

OfficerandisnowservingwiththeSixthFlotillainBrest.New radio messages tell us that three boats have been ordered to join in

pursuitoftheconvoy,thenfour,thenfinallyfive.We’renotoneofthem.“They ought to be sending in everything that canmove,” is theOldMan’s

comment.Whatheprobablywantstosayis,“Hellanddamnation,whenarewefinallygoingtogetourorders?”Hourafterhourgoesby,andstillnoradiomessageforus.TheCommander

squatsinthecornerofhisbunkandbusieshimselfwithacollectionofcoloredfoldersfullofallsortsofmemoranda:secretorders,tacticalregulations,flotillaorders, and all the other paperwork that’s always going the rounds. Everyoneknows thathedetests this sortofofficialwastepaper, thathe’sonly taken thefoldersouttohidehowtensehereallyis.Toward17.00,anotherradiomessagefinallyarrives.TheCommanderliftshis

eyebrows:hiswholefacelightsup.Apersonalmessageforus!Hereadsitand

hisfaceshutstightagain.Almostabsentmindedlyhepushesthenoteovertome:it’sanordertoreportweatherconditions.ThenavigatormakesoutthereportandhandsthesheettotheCommanderfor

his signature: “Barometer rising, air temperature five degrees,wind northwestsix,cloud,cirro-stratus,visibilitysevenmiles—UA.”NotwantingtobeinfectedbytheOldMan’sdepression,Iheadforthecontrol

room and climb up the ladder. The thin veil of cirrus has grown thicker. Thetattered blue gradually disappears behind it. The sky will soon be clothed ingray-on-gray.The light becomesduller.All around, dark cloudshavepiledupheavilyagainstthehorizon.Theirloweredgesmergeshapelesslyintothegrayofthe surrounding sky. It’sonlyhigherup that they’reclearly silhouettedagainstthewhitergray.Ipushmyhandsdeepintothepocketsofmyleatherjacketandstand therebalancingwithbentkneesagainst themotionof theboatwhile thecloudsswellslowlyhigherasifinflatedfromwithin.Deadahead,thewindtearsaholeinthem,butmorecloudspileinatoncefromeithersidetosealtheholeagain.Theyformamightyphalanxthatwillsoonthreatentoconquerthewholesky.Andthen,asifthemanycollisionsandocclusionsweren’talreadycausingenoughconfusion, thesuncomesbursting througha rift: itsbeamsslantdownlikespearstomakeadramaticplayoflightandshadowonthetumultuousmass.Next, a bright flash touches the sea, broad on the starboard beam; then thespotlightwandersonovera trailing,padded rimof cloud,making it flare intobrilliance. It darts back and forth, never lingering anywhere for more than amoment,crowningonecloudafteranotherwithahalooflight.TheSecondWatchOfficerisnotimpressedbythetransformationsofthesky.

“Damned flyer’s clouds!” For him the magnificent scenery is riddled withtrickery.Againandagainhetrainshisglassesonit.Iclimbdownandbusymyselfwithmycameras.Eveningcomes.Upontothe

bridgeagain.Nowthecloudsaresprinkledwithiridescentcolors.Suddenlythelightofthesunabandonsthem,andtheyimmediatelyreverttotheirowndrearygray. High in the sky there’s a pale phantom, the last quarter of the waningmoon.18.00.After the evening meal we sit tongue-tied, still expecting another radio

message.TheCommander is uneasy.Every fifteenminutes he disappears intothe control room and busies himself at the chart table. Five pairs of eyes arefixedonhimeachtimehereturns.Futile.Hesaysnothing.

TheChieffinallymakesanattempttocoaxtheCommanderoutofhissullensilence.“Abouttimethatcontactmanreportedagain.”TheCommanderpaysnoattention.TheChiefreachesforabook.Allright,ifthere’snotgoingtobeanytalk,I

can pretend to read too. The SecondWatch Officer and the Second Engineerthumbthroughnewspapers,theFirstWatchOfficerimmerseshimselfinofficial-lookingfolders.I’monmywaytomylockerandjustpassingtheradioshackwhenIseethe

radioman, eyes half closed in the light of his small lamp, scribbling down amessage.I stop dead inmy tracks.Back into theOfficers’Mess. The SecondWatch

Officer quickly starts deciphering it. Suddenly a look of consternation comesoverhisface.Something’swrong.TheCommanderholdsthemessageinhishandandhisfaceslowlyassumes

thesamebewilderedexpressionyouseeonboxersafterahardblowtothechin.Hereadsoutthemessage.“Surprisedbydestroyercomingoutofrainsquall.

Four hours’ depth charges.Contact lost, ampursuing in SquareBrunoKarl—UM.”At the last words his voice dies away. He stares for a goodminute at the

radiogram,audibly takesadeepbreath, staresagain, then finallyblows theairoutofbothcheeks.Healsoletshimselfsinkbackinthecornerofhissofa.Notaword,notacurse,nothing.Laterwe’resittingontherailinginthe“greenhouse”behindthebridge.“Thisismadness,”saystheOldMan.“Itfeelsasifwe’rebouncingacrossthe

Atlanticallonourown.Andat theverysame time—rightnow,sureas fate—therearehundredsofshipsatseaandsomeofthemareprobablynotfaraway.Except they’re beyond the horizon.” With bitterness in his voice, he adds,“CurvatureoftheearthissomethingthedearLordmusthaveinventedjustfortheEnglish.Whatcanwepossiblyseefromwaydownhere?Wemightaswellbesittinginacanoe.Patheticthatnobody’scomeupwithasolutionyet.”“Buttheyhave,”Isay.“Airplanes!”“Oh yes, airplanes. The enemy has those. Where are our own sea scouts

keeping themselves, that’swhat I’d like to know.A bigmouth is all FatbellyGoeringsupplies.ThatReichsmasterofHounds!”LuckilytheChiefbobsup.“Justgrabbingamouthfuloffreshair.

“It’sgettingabitcrowdedhere,”Isayanddisappearbelow.Aglance at the sea chart.Asusual—thepencil line that recordsour course

tacksbackandforthlikeafoldingyardstickoutofcontrol.TheOldMan also comesbelow.He sits down carefully on the chart chest,

andthere’sapausebeforehetakesupwhereheleftoff.‘Perhapswe’llstillbelucky.Iftheysendinenoughboats,there’sachancesomeonewillmakecontactagain.”Nextmorning I reada radiogrampickedupduring thenight.SquareBruno

Karlsearchafailure—UM.”

Thenextday is theworst sinceourdeparture.Weavoid speakingandkeepoutofoneanother’swayasthoughwehadscurvy.IspendmostofthetimeonthesofaintheOfficers’Mess.TheChiefdoesn’tevenemergefromtheengineroom formeals.TheSecondEngineer also stayswithhismachines.We three,theFirstWatchOfficer,theSecondWatchOfficer,andI,don’tdaresayawordtotheOldMan,whostaresholesintheairandonlyconsumesafewspoonfulsofthicksoup.SilencealsoreignsinthenextdoorQuarters.Theradiomancarefullyavoids

puttingarecordontheturntable.Eventhestewardworkswithdowncasteyesasthoughhewereservingatawake.Finally theCommander opens hismouth. “The other lot just aren’tmaking

mistakesanymore!”

Later, Zeitler starts up again with another of his knowing remarks:“Y’know…firstthinginthemorning’sreallythebest.”Itdoesn’ttakeageniustoknowwhatsubjectwe’rebackon.WichmannandFrenssenareallears.“Iwas inHamburg one time…had to deliver a letter formyChief. Itwas

whenIwasstillservingwiththeminesweepers.Anyhow,thereIam,Iringthebell,andwhocomestoanswer itbut this littleblondbombshell.Mother’sout,just gone to the post office, back in a minute, do come in… so I do. Insidethere’sakindofhallwithacouchinit.Igetascumbagonandherskirtoffinnotimeflat,andjustaswefinishbanging, thedoorstarts.hermother’sopenedit

andgotstuckbythesafetychain!Luckilythecouchistoofartooneside,soshecan’t see us through the crack.Missy shoves her panties out of sight under acushion,but I almost forget to zipupbefore shaking stinkfingerswith theoldlady.Zeitler,howd’youdo,pleasedtomeetyou,‘fraidIhavetorun,dueback,youknowhowit is…andI’moutof there.It’snot tillI’mtakingapisshourslaterthatIrealizeI’vestillgotmyrubberon.Orrather,it’snottillafterItakethepissandIfindmyself lookingdownat thishugeyellowcucumber.Whatamess!Andtheguystandingnexttomeislaughinghimselfsick…”

The FirstWatch Officer’s daily shave is the talk of the bow compartment.“Upsettingthewholeplace—whoeverheardofsuchathing—spendingallyourtimeinthecan,shaving.”“TheOldManoughttoissueanultimatum.”“Oneshithouseforthewholecrewandwehavetohaveabathingbeautylike

thatonboard!”Pilgrimpullssomephotographsoutofhiswallet.Oneofthemshowsaman

onapier.“Myfather!”heexplainstome.Hesoundsasifhe’s introducingus.“Diedintheprimeoflife—that’sthewayIwanttogotoo.”Whatonearthistheretosay?Idon’tdarelookPilgriminthefacebutsimply

mutter,“Finephoto.”Heseemssatisfied.“Theemotionallifeofmostofthecrewisacompletemysterytome,”theOld

Mansaidtomeonce.“Howcanyouknowwhatthemenarethinking?Onceinawhileyoufindoutsomething,anditknocksyourightoffyourfeet,likethestoryofFrenssen’sdonna—Frenssen thedieselmechanicmate.Hemet this ladyonleave. Then he left on patrol and she got nomail from him so shewent to afortuneteller.Apparentlytherearestillsomearound.He’dneglectedtotellhisladythatwedon’toftengettothepostoffice.Apparentlythefortunetellerputonabigact,thengasped,‘Iseewater—nothingbutwater.’”TheOldManwasdoingbothvoices:thefortuneteller’sandthelady’s.“’And

no U-boat?’ ‘No, water—only water—nothing but water!’ The donna, whoconsidered herself our dieselmechanicmate’s fiancée, started screaming, ‘Hemustbedead!’ThefortunetellerremainedassilentastheOracleitself.D’youknowwhathappenednext?Thedonnaputherhandstoherheadandwailed,‘Oh

god—andI’mstillwearingred!’Wroteoneletterafteranothertotheflotilla.Tometoo.IhadtherestofthestoryfromFrenssen.Hedidn’tgotoParisonhislastleave.He’dhadenough!”

I’m sitting alone with the Old Man in the Officers’ Mess. We pick up aradiogram addressed to Bachmann. It’s the third time in four days thatBachmann’sboatisbeingorderedtoreport.“AllquietontheWesternFront,”murmurstheCommander.“Verylikelyhe’s

caughtittoo.Theshapehewasin,heshouldneverhavebeenallowedtoputtosea.”Theoldstory:Whendoesacommanderbecome“ripe”forretirementandhavetoberelieved?Whyaretherenomedicalmentomakesurethattheboatsdon’tputtoseawithcommandersonthevergeoftotalbreakdown?ZiemersailedwithBachmannasFirstWatchOfficer.Ziemardrowned?Isee

himwith thewaitress fromtheflotillamess, lying in thesun.Alwayseager tolearn,hewashavingher anatomyexplained tohim inFrench.Practicingonalive model. First he took hold of her breasts and said, “Les dunduns.” “Lesseins!” thewaitress correctedhim.Thenhepushedhishandbetweenher legsandsaid,“Lapin!”Whereuponsheputhimright:“Levagine”;andsoitwent.FromnextdoorwecanheartheFirstWatchOfficergivingaclassinsecurity

precautions.“They’llgabblejustthesame!”theOldMancomments.Hebroodsfor awhile, then: “Thiswhole secrecybusiness is a farce.TheTommieshavehadanundamagedboatofoursforagesnow.”“Really?”“Yes,onethatsurrendered.Ramlow’sboat.SouthofIcelandintheopensea;

all our secretmaterial, all the codes, everything—theTommies got all of it inonefellswoop!”“ThatmusthavemadetheC-in-Chappy!”“WhenyouthinkthatRamlowmayevenhavebeenasecretagent—youcan’t

eventrustyourownrighthand.Hemanagedtotalkhisofficersintoit—hardtobelieve!”

Onlyonemoredayatcruisingspeedtillwereachthenewfieldofoperations.Aradiomessageispickedup.Tensionwhilewewaitforittobedecoded.It’s addressed to Flechsig. Ordered to shift his position seventy miles

westward.Apparently a convoy is expected to pass through at that point. Thenavigator showsme thespotona small-scalechart. It’sclose to theAmericancoast, I.e., many days sailing away from us. A little later we pick up a radiosignal directed to a boat stationed near Iceland, Böhler’s boat; and to a thirdoperatingnearGibraltar—UJ—-that’sKortmann.Kortmann,whowasinvolvedinthefoul-upwiththeBismarcktanker.Aboatreportsthatit’sunabletodive.Meinig’s.Foul-mouthedMeinig.Ifit’s

unabletodive,aboatispracticallylost,“Shit!”saystheOldMan.“Notevenpursuitescort—toofaraway.Allwecan

doiskeepourfingerscrossed.”Hebends forwardand raps three timesunderneath the table.“Let’shopehe

makesit.Meinig,itwouldbeMeinig!”We all sit there silent. The OldMan’s lips move noiselessly. Perhaps he’s

figuring out how long it will take Meinig’s boat to reach Saint Nazaire atcruisingspeed.Acoldshudderrunsdownmyback:JustwhatwilltheydoiftheSunderlands

appear?Ordestroyers?AsasurfacevesseltheU-boatishopelesslyinferiortoitsopponents.Toolittleenginepowertogetaway,noarmor,gunstoosmall.Morevulnerablethanalmostanyothership:asinglehitonthepressurehullandthat’sit.“Boy, oh boy!” is all the Chief can say. It’s obvious how completely he’s

identifyingwithhiscolleagueontheotherboat.He’sactuallygonewhite.“MeierTwoorThreeiswithMeinig,isn’the,Chief?”askstheOldMan.“MeierTwo,HerrKaleun—inmyclassattheacademy!”Nooneopenshismouth.Westareatthetableasthoughthere’ssomething—

anything—tobeseenthere.Icanhardlybreathe.Ialsoknowoneofthemeninthatboat—Habermann—theBaitHabermannwhowaswithmeonthatwretchedinspectioncruisetoGötenhafen:midwinter,twenty-fivedegreesbelowzeroandaneastwind.Icanrememberhimsittingonthecoldlinoleum—starknaked—legsstretched

out stiff in front of him, backbraced against the silk-coveredwall of theCap

Arcona, head on his chest, dribbling. No respect for the impressive interiorappointmentsoftheformerluxurylinernowafloatingbarracks.Iamovertakenbyanervousfitofthegiggles:oldbarefootHabermann—that

waswhenhe’djustgotoverhisthirddoseoftheclap.Later he toldme that he’d been looking for thewashroomandhad lost his

way.Nakedanddesperate,hehadjustsatdownandwaitedforarescuer.Pneumonia?Notachance!Neveronefordomesticcomforts,hecouldn’tbe

knockedoutbyspendinghourssittingonhisnakedass.Noteventendosesofclapcoulddothat.ButnowitlooksasthoughtheTommieshavemanagedit.Athree-star announcement will be coming up. Flemming, Habermann—therearen’tmanyleft!

TheOldManisthefirsttospeak.Hemeanstochangethesubjectbutactuallystayswith it. “Aproper submarine, now that would be something.We’re notreallyasubmarine.Allwehavehereisadivingboat.”Silence.Onlyafterasurprisedlookfrommedoesheexplain,betweenpauses,

“afterall,thecapacityofourstoragebatteriesisonlyenoughforshortattacksatperiscope level or a quick run underwater to escape pursuit. Actually, we’recompletely dependent on the surface. It’s impossible to do more than eightymilesunderwaterevenwhenwe’reconservingpowerasmuchaswecan.Ifwerununderwateratourtopspeedofnineknots,thebatteriesareflatinonetotwohours.Notexactlyluxurious.Andyetthebatteriesareanenormousdeadweight.Those lead plates weigh more than all the rest of the boat’s machinery puttogether. Now a real submarine would be able to travel underwater, with nodiesels requiring air and producing exhaust gas. It wouldn’t be as vulnerablewithoutalltheequipmentweneednow—allthoseopeningsinthepressurehull.Whatweneedissomeformofenginethat’sindependentoftheatmosphere.”

We have barely reached the new area of operations when a radiomessagecomes in.We are to bemarshaled into a groupwith other boats, I.e., form areconnaissancepatrol.Theareatobecoveredliesagooddistancefarthertothewest.It’lltakeustwodaystogetthereatcruisingspeed.

“They’vechristenedthegroup‘WolfPack’—marvelous!”saystheOldMan.“ApparentlytheyhaveakindofcourtpoetatStaffHeadquarterswhothinksupthisbullshit—’WolfPack’!‘Daisies’wouldhavedonejustaswell,butno:keepbangingthedrum…”To theOldMan,even“areaofoperations”sounds toohighflown. Ifhehad

hisway,theusualnavalrhetoricwouldbethoroughlydeflated.Hehimselfcanspendhours thinkingup theworstpossiblebanalities forhisentries in thewarlog.

IreadoverwhatI’vewritteninmybluenotebook:Sunday.Sixteenthdayatsea.Reportofconvoyheadedeast.Weareoncourse

atninetydegreestodirectionofconvoy.Monday.Seventeenthdayatsea.Givennewbaseline.Farthersouth.Dragnet

being drawn that way. Probably only five boats in our new patrol—somedragnet!: either themesh is toobigor thenet is too small.Speedeightknots.Let’shope the ship’spositions tally.Also that theGeneralStaffhas takendueaccountoftheunfavorableweatherconditionsinourarea.Nomachine-gunpracticebecauseofbadvisibility.“Mightjustaswellthrow

itaway.”Wedivetolisten.Wednesday. Nineteenth day at sea. Another new tack. Only slight

groundswell, no artillery practice possible. The weather must have joined theAllies.Thursday.Twentiethdayatsea.Radiosilenceexceptforenemyreports.More

thanfiveboatsnowassembledinourarea.Theenemymustn’tlearnthatwe’regathering. Results of search: nil. Moderate sea. Light wind from northwest.Strato-cumulusclouds.Butheavylayerofmistdownclosetothewater.Notraceofconvoy.Friday.Twenty-firstdayatsea.We’vebeenassignedyetanothernewoutpost

patrol.“God knows where the bastards are bucketing around!” growls the

Commander.

Twenty-secondDayatSea.Thewatchesseemtogoonforever.Skylikebeefsuet.Alldaylong,thishugeheavydomeoffatweighingdownonthedarksea—andnosuntomeltit.Todaywehaveasuperb,unbrokenhorizon.Nothingonit.Notasinglebristle

of amist.Nothing. If onlywe couldget uphigher!That, of course, hasoftenbeentried.Takethekiteexperiment.TheysentamanuponakitebackduringWorldWarI,butapparentlyitwasn’tmuchofasuccess.

Twenty-thirdDayatSea.Thewindhaspickedup,andtheseahasbecomeagigantic field of breakers.Thewaves don’t rise all thatmuch, yet all of thembreak.Thismakesthesealookgray-whiteandancient.Theskyisdismal,auniformgrayclothstretchedoverourheads.Asagging

curtainofrainbeginstofallfromthegray,overtostarboard.Asinglepatchoflightonthehorizonglowsfaintlythroughthestreaks.Thewallofrainisslate-gray,withatraceofvioletinit.Hazespreadsoutlikefogonallsides.Thewallis advancing slowlybutdirectlyatus, so theCommanderhashisoilskinsandsou’-westerbroughtup.He’sswearing.We’re in themidst of a cloudburst.No longer any air. The flail of the rain

raises welts on the waves, which hunch their backs under it. No more risingcrests,nottheslightestglitterofreflection.Onlyourheavilydrippingbowthattearsthemapartandtossessprayintotheair.Streamsofrainandspraymixonourfaces.Theglassygreenofthewaterhasfaded,thewhiteveinshavedisappeared;the

seahasgrownolderbyathousandyears.Itisgray,miserable,pock-marked.Noshimmer,nocolor.Nothingbutuniform,soul-destroyinggray.The bridge guards stand like blocks of stone beneath a sky that is turning

itself insideout.Sixofus try topenetrate thewallofwater;nopoint inusingglassesnow—they’dmistoverimmediately.It’sasthoughtherainweretryingtodrownus.Only toward evening does the wild fury of the downpour abate. It’s night

beforeitstopsentirely.

Twenty-fourthDayatSea.Inthecontrolroom.TheOldManistalkinghalftomeandhalf tohimself.“Strangehowlittle timeonesideor theothercanholdtheupperhandthankstoanewweapon.Neverlastsmorethanafewmonths.Weinvented the tactic of hunting in packs, and the enemy built up their defensesystem.Whichalsoworked.Prien’sboat,Schepke’s,Kretschmer’s,allof themwerelostagainstasingleconvoy.Nowwehavethenewacoustictorpedowithits homing head, and the Tommies are already towing those damned rattlingbuoysalongonalongsteelcable—theydivertthetorpedoesbecausetheymakemore racket than the screws. Action and counteraction—always the same.Nothingstimulatesthebraincellslikeadesiretowipeouttheotherside.”Formorethanthreeweeksnowwehavebeenvoyagingintoemptiness.The

uniformdaysflowoneintoanother.The boat drew a blank on its last patrol. Returned to base after a long,

exhaustingvoyagewithouthavingfiredasingletorpedo.“Thebastardsseemtobeavoidingus,”saystheSecondWatchOfficer,theonlyonewhostillkeepsupan attempt at the odd joke. It takes us a half day to traverse the attack areaassigned to us and reach its northern border. “Time to change course!” thehelmsmanshoutsupthroughtheopenhatch.“Harda-port!Newcourseonehundredeightydegrees!”TheWatchOfficer.Slowly thebowswings throughasemicircleof thehorizon.Thewakecurls

likeasnake,andthesun,distortedintoawhitepatchbymultiplelayersofcloud,pushesitselftotheothersideoftheboat.“Headingonehundredeightydegrees!”Thevoiceofthehelmsmanagain.The course indicator now stands at 180 degrees. It was at 360 degrees.

Otherwisenothinghaschanged.Notmuchtoseefromthebridge.Theseahasdozedoff.Onlyafewruffleson

a tired, elderly groundswell. The air ismotionless. The clouds stand still likecaptiveballoons.

Bone-weary,Istillfindmyselfkeepingawatchfuleyeonthestolidprogressof theminute hand around the dial above the galleydoor.Finally I fall into asemi-trance.

Thethinshellofsleepissuddenlyruptured:thealarmbellshrills.Thefloorisalreadytilting.Sleep-tousled, the Chief crouches behind the hydroplane operators. The

Commanderstandsmotionlessbesidethem.Thenavigator,whogavethealarm,isholdingfast totheladder.He’sstillbreathinghardfromtheeffortofsealingthehatch.“Raisethestern—forwardten—aftfifteen—upslowly!”theChieforders.“Ashadow—atninetydegrees—quitedistinct!”thenavigatorfinallyexplains

tome.The sound gear is in action; the operator’s head is thrust forward into the

gangway.Hiseyesareblankasheslowlysearchesthewaterfornoises.“Soundof screwsat seventydegrees—receding!”Andafter awhile, “Soundsgrowingweaker—fadingout!”“That’s how it goes,” the Commander says, unmoved, and shrugs slightly.

“Courseonethirtydegrees!”andhedisappearsthroughthecircularhatch.So—we’llremainsubmergedforawhile.“Thankgod,it’squiet!”“Somefastvesselsailingunescorted—notachancewhenit’sthisdark.”I’mhardlybackinmybunkwhenIpassout.

“Enemyconvoyinsight—UX.”“ConvoyinsightSquareXW,onesixtydegrees,speedtenknots—UX.”“Enemy following zigzag course around fifty degrees. Speed ten knots—

UW.”“Convoytravelinginseveralcolumns.Surroundedbyescortvessels.Course

twentydegrees.Speednineknots—UK.”The radio spares us nothing. We know everything that’s going on in the

Atlantictheaterofwar.Butwecan’treachasingleoneofthereportedconvoys;they’reallintheNorthAtlantic.We’repositionedmuchtoofartothesouthofthem.

“Ifitgoesonthisway,we’llstillbeatseacomeChristmas,”Zeitlersays.“Well, what of it?” Rademacher answers. “That won’t cause any

embarrassment.We’vegotaChristmastreeonboard.”“Comeon!”“I’m tellingyou! It’s anartificial, collapsible thing—likeanumbrella—ina

cardboardcarton.Ifyoudon’tbelieveme,goaskNumberOne.”“Typicalof theNavy!” saysEnsignUllmann.Then tomysurprisehe starts

tellingusabouthisChristmasexperiences.“SomeonealwaysdiedatChristmasinourflotilla.NewYear’sEve,too.In1940itwasabosun.Itwasaroundtwelveo’clock on Christmas Eve when he played his little joke. Wanted to be adaredevil; put his automatic to his forehead and actually crooked his fingeraroundthetriggerwhilewestoodandgapedathim.Ofcourse,hehadtakenthemagazineoutbeforehand.Onlyhewasn’tsmartenoughtoremembertherewasalreadyashellinthebarrel—andbang—offflewthebackofhisskull.Madeonehellofamess!”The shattered skull reminds Hinrich of something. “Once we had a fellow

who blew his whole face off—New Year’s Eve. That was when I was stillservingonapatrolboat.Wewerealldeaddrunk.Attwelveo’clockonthedotone of the petty officers cameon the bridge carrying a kindof handgrenade.Thosemiserable thingswere still around at that time andyou lit themexactlylikeafirecracker,withafuse.Hestoodbesidetherailingandputacigarettetothefuseandblewonitjustright.Onlythenhegothispawsmixedup:hehurledthecigaretteintothedrinkandwentonholdingthegrenaderightinfrontofhissnout.Ofcourse,itexploded—thatwassomemesstoo!”Idon’twanttolistentoanymore.

IntheU-room,instructionforpettyofficersisinprogressagain.FirstWatchOfficerlecturing.“…fellinactionagainstaconvoy…”TheOldManrollshiseyesandlooksfurious.“’Fell’?That’sanotherofthosedamnfoolexpressions.Isupposehetripped?

I’ve seen thousands of photos of soldierswho ‘fell.’Well, theydidn’t look sogoodafterthey‘landed.’Whydoesn’tanyonehavethegutstosaythattheman

they’retalkingaboutwasdrowned?IgetillwhenIcomeacrossallthenonsensetheychurnoutaboutus.”He pushes himself to his feet and heads for his cubbyhole; comes back

holdinganewsclipping.“Gotsomethinghere—keptitespeciallyforyou.”

"'Well,FirstWatchOfficer,that'sit!Anotherfivethousandgrossregistered tons.But tomorrow ismywife'sbirthday.Weshoulddosomethingtomarkit,Honorourwomenfolk!Wemustneverforget that!'TheFirstWatchOfficergrinsunderstandinglyandtheCommanderliesdownonhishardcouchtomakeupforlostsleep. But hardly an hour has passed when the First WatchOfficershakeshimawake.'Birthdaysteamer,HerrKaleun!'TheCommandershootstothebridge:everythinghappensveryfast.'Tubes one and two stand by for underwater shot!' Bothtorpedoesarehits. 'Atleastsixthousandgrossregisteredtons!'saystheCommander.'IsHerrKaleunsatisfiedwithhisbirthdaypresent?' 'Very!' replies the Commander. And the face of hisFirstWatchOfficeristransfiguredwithjoy."

TheOldMan starts cursing again. “And that’s the kind of stuff people aregiventoread.Incredible.”

WhereverIlook_nothingbutclenchedteeth,facesdullwithdisgust,irritation,discontent.Almost impossible to imagine there’s still dry land somewhere. Houses.

Pleasantrooms.Lamps.Thewarmthfromthestove.The warmth from the stove. Suddenly I catch the smell of baked apples,

waftingthroughtheirongratingofthegreenstovethatreachedtotheceilinginour living roomat28Bahnhofstrasse.Therewere alwaysbakedapples at thistime of year. I inhale their sweet, spicy smell; I juggle one—hot, hot, hot—rejoicing in the play of color of the burst skin: smooth, gleaming, polished.Applesfromourowntrees,thekindwithredstreaksonayellowbackground;atthecenteroftheredraysistheblossom.Itlooksasiftransparentredlacquerhadbeendrippedovereachone.

“Nice here.Nomail, no telephone,” theOldMan remarks suddenly, sittingdown on the leather sofa beside me. “Well-ventilated boat, handsome woodveneer,openhouse.Onthewholewe’vemadeoutprettywell.”“…horse shit,” says the Chief, appearing like a jack-in-the-box. “He’s

certainly made out all right, hasn’t he? And he doesn’t have to worry aboutpromotionanymore—he’sevenallowedtosmoke.”TheOldManisthoroughlydisconcerted.Meanwhiletheothershaveassembledaroundthetableforthedailysqueezing

of lemons,a self-imposed task that littleby littlehasassumed thecharacterofritual.WearehauntedbyimagesofthedevastationthatcanresultfromalackofvitaminC.Iseethecirclearoundthetableashideous,toothlessghostspainfullygumminghardcrustsofbread:that’sscurvy.Everyonehashisownmethodofdowning lemon juice.TheChief firstcuts

the fruit in two, systematically pierces the juice cells in each half as thoughexpecting to spend thewhole evening at it, then sticks a small piece of lumpsugar intoeachof thehalvesandsucks the juicenoisily throughthesugar.Noregardforetiquette.TheSecondWatchOfficerhashituponaparticularlystrikingprocedure.He

squeezesthelemonjuiceintoaglass,mixesitwithsugarandthenaddsadashofcondensed milk. The milk curdles immediately and the whole thing looksloathsome. It makes the OldMan shudder every time, but the SecondWatchOfficer pays no attention. He proudly names his drink “TheU-boat Special,”inquires if the restofusare jealous,and thenslowlyswallows theconcoction,rollinghiseyesinecstasy.TheSecondEngineeristheonlyonewhotakesnotroubleatall.Hefollows

thevulgarpracticeofsinkinghishealthyteethintothetwohalvesandeatsthepulpalongwiththejuice.TheOldManwatcheshimwithobviousdisapproval.I can’t get over the Second Engineer. At first I decided he was simply

obstinate.ButnowIknowthathe’sjustamandevoidofnaturalsensibilityandequippedinsteadwithahidelikeanelephant’s.Heplaysuphisimperturbabilityandcalm,emphasizeshisstrengthofcharacter,whenhe’snothingbutdullandthick-skinned.Alsohe’sveryslowtothinkandjustasslowtoact—mentallyandphysically theexactoppositeof theChief.Godknowshowhehappenedtohit

on becoming an engineer, and how—given his ponderous ineptitude—hewangledhiswaythroughthecoursesandexaminations.That’sthedifferencebetweenhimandtheOldMan:theOldManpretendsto

beponderousandindolent—whiletheSecondEngineerreallyis.Forawhileweallconcentrateonourlemons.Asthesqueezedorsucked-out

halvesinthemiddleofthetableturnintoamountain,thestewardappearsandwithasweepinggestureofhisarmcollectsthemallinhisgarbagepail.Thenhemopsupthevitamin-richjuicewithanevil-smellingrag.The ship’s day still has about six hours to run.Our little gray cells are on

vacation.Wesimplysitandvegetate—likeold-agepensionersonaparkbench.Actuallyallwelackarewalkingstickstoleanon.TheSecondWatchOfficerhas immersedhimself inFrenchnewspapers.He

makes a practice of reading them all the way through, including theadvertisements.Thistimehe’scomeacrossanitemhecan’tunderstand.Overaphotographoffivegirlsisalargeheadlinestating:“Onacouronnélesrosiêres.”It has to dowith the bestowal of a prize founded by a now-deceased lady ofNancy forvirtuousdaughtersof that city. Ihave to translate thewholearticle,includingthesongsofpraisetothevirtueofthefivechosenvirgins.Thereisatouchingdescriptionofhowtheyoungladiesmadeapilgrimagetothecemeterywhere the founderwasburied and adornedher graveon theSundaywhen theprizesweregivenout.“Howmuchpercapita!”“Twohundredfrancsapiece.”The SecondWatch Officer is dumbfounded. “That’s only about tenmarks,

isn’t it?”It takeshimsometimetodrawtheobviousconclusion.“It’scrazy.Ifthe ladies had forgotten about their virtue, they’d have shown a much tidierprofit…”“Nicelyput.”There is a real library on board. In a locker on the side wall of the

Commander’s cubbyhole. But it’s far less popular than the detective storiesstrewn around in the bow compartment. They have covers with bloodthirstyscenes and titles such as The Black Cotton Noose, Shot in the Back, ThreeShadowsattheWindow,ExpiatedSins,TheInnocentBullet.Mostofthemhavebeenpassedfromhandtohandsooftenthatthecoversareinragsandthegreasypages are coming apart at the seams. As of now, seaman Schwalle holds the

record.Onthelastcruisehe’ssaidtohavegotthroughtwentyofthem;thistriphe’salreadyuptoeighteen.

Twenty-seventhDayatSea.Aradiosignalcomesin.“ToWolfPack:Assumenew advance patrol position. Course three hundred ten degrees. Speed sevenknots. Advance position will be reached on twenty-third at 07.00—BdU(Donitz).”Thismeansanewcourse,otherwisenochange.Avoicefromtheradio,“…unyieldingmartialspirit…”“Shutitoff!”TheChiefshoutssoloudthatIjump.“Itseemsasifthey’vegotthehangofitnow,”saystheOldManandlooksat

me grimly. “Just read through the last radiograms. ‘Dive to escape flyers—forcedaway—contact lost—divetoescapedestroyers—depthcharges.’Alwaysthesamestory.It’sbeginningtolookasifthebalancehasswungtheirway.I’dhatetobeintheBdU’sskinrightnow.TheGreatestFieldMarshalofAllTime,oldAdolf,willmakemincemeatoutofhimifnothingcomesthroughsoonforthespecialannouncementbasket.”“Well,afterall,thebalancecanswingbothways.”TheOldManlooksup.“Doyoureallybelieve…?”“Believe—soundstoomuchlikechurch.”ButtheOldManwon’tallowhimselftobeprovoked.

“Whereexactlyarewe?”Frenssenthedieselmechanicmateasksashecomesoffdutyintothecontrolroom.“AlmostoffthecoastofIceland.”“Well,whatdoyouknow?AndIthoughtwewereclosetoAmerica.”Icanonlyshakemyheadinamazement:typicalofanengineroomman.They

don’tgiveadamnwheretheboatisoperating.It’sthesameonallships:engine-roompeoplemendandtendtheirdieselsandmotorsanddon’tcarewhetherit’sdayornight.Theyshyawayfromfreshairandarebaffledbytherealsailors.Our little seafaringband is riddledwithcastedivisions.The twomainones

are the sailors and the engineers.Upper deck and lower deck.Belowdecks is

subdivided intoelectriciansanddieselmen. Inaddition, there’sacontrol-roomcaste,a torpedomechanics’caste,andthesmallselectcasteofradioandsonarmen.

It comes out that the bosun has some cans of pigs’ feet hidden among hissupplies.Plus somecansof sauerkraut.TheCommander immediatelyorders afeastforthenextday.“Abouttime,too!”isallheadds.Atnoonthestewardcomesinwiththesteamingdishes,andtheCommander’s

facelightsupasifthisisChristmasdinner.Heleapstohisfeetinanticipation,sniffingthefragrantsteamthatrisesfromtherose-graymoundofporkonagreataluminumplatterwiththejaggedbonesandwhitecartilageshowing.Thehugepiecesaregarnishedwithslicesofonionandpickleandarrangedintheproperway—onabedofsauerkraut.“Beerwouldn’tbebadwiththis,”hintstheChief,knowingperfectlywellthat

onlya singlebottleperman isonboard, tobeopenedafter avictory.But theCommander seems ready for anything today. “Must celebrate holidays as theycome.Ahalfbottleofbeerperman—that’sone fullbottlebetweenevery twomen!”Thenewsisflashedtothebowcompartmentandaroargoesup.Withasharp

jerkonthehingeofalockertheChiefopensthethreebottlesthatcometotheOfficers’ Mess, and even before we can seize our glasses, thick white frothstreamsoutofthebottlenecks,likefoamoutofafireextinguisher.“Prost!” the Commander lifts his glass. “Here’s to the end of this damn

friggingaround!”TheChiefdrainshisglassatasinglegulpandtiltshisheadrightbacktocatch

thelastdrops.Thenhelicksthefoamfromtheinsideoftherimandsmackshislips.Heconcludeswithgroansofsheerpleasure.Whenthebarebonesofthefeasthavebeencarriedaway,thestewardappears

oncemore.Ican’tbelievemyeyes.He’sbearingalargecakecoveredwithblackchocolateicing.The Commander has the cook summoned immediately. The cook looks

confusedbut is readywithhisexcuse: theeggshad tobeused;otherwise theywouldhavegonebad.

“Howmanycakeshaveyoubaked?”“Eight,threeslicesperman!”“Andwhen?”“Lastnight,HerrKaleun.”PermissiontogrincanbereadintheOldMan’sface.The debauch is followed by contented calm. The OldMan folds his arms

across his chest, hunches his head down against his shoulders, and smilesamiablyatusall.The Chief settles himself properly in his corner of the sofa: an intricate

procedure. He takes as long as a dog to find the best position. He has justmanageditwhenwordcomesfromabove.“Chieftothebridge!”Cursing,hestrugglestohisfeet.He’sgotonlyhimselftoblame.Theminute

anythingofinterestoccurstopsidehewantstobeinformed.Onlythedaybeforehewas angrybecausehehadn’t been calledwhen threewhales surfacedquiteclosetotheboat.Iclimbupafterhimandgetmyheadabovetheedgeofthehatchjustintime

to hear him ask angrily, “What the devil is it then?” And the SecondWatchOfficerrepliesobsequiously,“Thirteenwhitegullsflewaroundtheship!”Evenfrombehind them,Ican tell that thebridgeguardsaregrinning.“They’ve justdisappearedoverthehorizon,”headds.TheChief yells, “Just youwait!”Then he goes below to the control room,

obviouslytoplanrevenge.ThistimetheOldMansaveshimthetrouble.WhiletheSecondWatchOfficer

is still on duty he sounds the practice alarm. The boat cuts under the surfacebeforetheSecondWatchOfficerhassealedthehatchandhegetsatremendousdousing.AsheclimbsdownintothecontrolroomtheChieffavorshimwithahappysmile.TheSecondWatchOfficersuddenlyrunshishandinpanicthroughhishair.“Anythingwrong?”theCommanderaskssolicitously.TheSecondWatchOfficertakesadeepbreath.Hismouthsagsopenandhe

lookscrushed.“Mycap—on thebridge,”hestutters.“I took itoffandhung itoverthetorpedosight.”TheCommanderadoptstheingratiatingtonesofaheadwaiter.

“Wouldthegentlemanlikeustosurfaceimmediately,reverseourcourse,andundertakeasearch?”TheSecondWatchOfficerletshimselfdropintoachair.

Aflydartsaimlesslybackandforthunderthelampabovethecharttable.It’sapuzzle.Afterall, fliesarenotalbatrosses:Theycan’t justsailstraightacrosstheAtlantic.WhenweleftSaintNazaireitwasn’ttherighttimeofyearforflies—alreadytoolateintheseason, toocold,evenforFrance.It’spossibletheflywas brought aboard as an egg, pre-embryonic maybe, along with a thousandother ones that had less luck in hatching.Perhapsour fly got into the torpedotubesasamaggot.Perhaps itgrewup in thebilges,constantlypursuedby theinveteratefanaticalcleanlinessofNumberOne.Atruemiracle,thisfly’slife,aseverythinghereissolderedshut.Nopiecesofcheeselyingabout.Noideahowithassurvived.Oneknowsaltogethertoolittleaboutone’sneighbor.Herewesit,inthesame

boat—in themost literal senseof theword—andyet I haveno inklingof thisfly’sviewoftheworld.Iknownothingwhateverabouttheemotionallifeofthecommon housefly.As to the fruit fly, however, I can at least give it its Latinname: Drosophila melanogaster. Short-winged and long-winged Drosophilawere popular duringmy time in school.Wehad a fair number of each in testtubes withmashed bananas. The biology lecturer combined carefully countedspecimensinathirdtube,buttheresultsofthecross-breedingnevercheckedoutbecausewesecretlyputafewadditionalshort-wingedfliesinamongthelong-winged ones. There stood the lecturer trying to juggle the numbers tillwe allshouted,“Cheat!”Afly’seyeunderthemicroscope—atruemarvel.Flieshavetobecaughtfrom

in front because they can’t take off backward.Clear as daylight. But this oneisn’tgoingtobecaught.It’sundermypersonalprotection.Perhapsitwillevenhavebabies,which in turnwillhavemorebabies—onegenerationofshipbornfliesafteranother,andItheirpatron.AndI’mnoteventhatfondofthecreatures.WehadbarelyfishedmyclassmateSwobodaoutofBinsenLakewhenthose

fatbluebottlesbegantosettleinthecornersofhiseyes.Rigormortishadmadehim stiffen in a strange bent position with his knees drawn up. The scent ofacaciaswas almost overpowering in theMecklenburg summer heat. The rigor

mortisfinallyworeoffbyevening,sowecouldstraightenhimout.ItwasthenthatIdiscoveredclotsofyellowflyeggsasbigaspeasinthecornersofbothhiseyes.Iwonderifourship’sflyisgettingideas…

The FirstWatchOfficer is instructing the petty officers again. Through theclatterofdishes,whichthestewardconsidersanindispensablepartofhiswork,comesthefragmentofasentence.“…tobreakthestranglehold…”TheOldMangivesapainedglanceattheceilingandraiseshisvoicetoreach

thebowcompartment.“AreyousettlingaccountswithAlbionagain,FirstWatchOfficer?”

The navigator has spotted and reported an object at thirty degrees. TheCommanderclimbstothebridgethewayheis,insweateranddrilltrousers.Iatleast get down my rubber jacket from its hook. Luckily I’m wearing leathertrousersandcork-soledshoes.Theflotsamiseasilyvisibletothenakedeye.TheCommanderscrutinizesit

foragoodtwominutesthroughhisbinoculars,thenordersthehelmsmantosteerstraightforit.Itrapidlygrowsuntilitbecomesaboatwithitsbowatanangleoftwohundreddegreestous.TheOldMansendsthetwolookoutsbelowandmuttersanexplanation:“No

reasonforthemtohavetolookatittoo.”It quickly becomes clear, however, that this move was unnecessary: the

lifeboatisempty.TheOldManhasbothengines stopped.“…abitcloser,navigator,and read

thename.”“Stel—laMar—is,”hesaysslowly.TheOldManhasthebridgelookoutscomeondeckagain.“Makeanotefor

thelog,”hetellsthenavigator,andgivescourseandengineorders.Afteracoupleofminuteswearebackonouroldcourse.Iclimbdownbehind

theOldMan.Thelifeboatwallowinginthegray-greenseamusthavestirreda

memoryinhim.“Aboatloadofpeopleonceroweddirectlyatus.Oddstory…”Well,outwithit.Buthesaysnothingmoreforthetimebeing.Oneofthesedayshe’sgoingto

drivememadwithallhisfoiblesandfive-minutedelays.Ihavetosummonupallmyself-controlnottonagathim.ButIsoonrealizethattheOldManisn’tputtingontheusualact.Hisfaceis

troubled.Hedoesn’treallyknowhowtotacklehisstory.Verywell,we’llwait.Ipushmyhandsdeepintomytrouserpockets,straightenmyback,andshiftmyweight from one buttock to the other to find the most comfortable position.We’recertainlynotpressedfortime.While I listen to thepatterof thesprayand thecrashof thewaves, theOld

Manfinallybeginstotalk.“Ioncesankasteamer—thatis,itwasreallyherownspeedthatsankher—onmythirdpatrol.Thetorpedotoreawaythebowandthesteamerwentdownforwardimmediately;itwasstillmakingsomuchheadwaythatshedivedlikeaU-boat.You’dhardlybelieveit.Goneinaflash.Practicallynosurvivors.”Afterawhile,headds:“Funny,itwasactuallyabadhit—butthat’sthewayit

goes!”I find myself thinking that it’s not the story he’d really wanted to tell,

interesting and typical though it is: a factual account of his professionalexperiences—curiosities and oddities—memorable departures from the norm.But the real story?A lifeboatmust have come into it somewhere. I’ll have togivehimalead.“Sotheynevergottothelifeboatsatall…?”“Theydidn’t!”Ideprivehimofthesatisfactionofbeingproddedagainandwait.Hesnorts

twice,quickly,thenwipeshisnosewiththebackofhishand.“Peopleshouldn’tgetsocynical,youknow…”Nowit’suptometoindicatemyinterestbyaturnofthehead.Nothingmore.

Buthestaresstolidlyinfrontofhim.That’sallrighttoo.Don’trush.IwaitforthepausetobecompletelyplayedoutbeforeIask,ascasuallyasIcan,“Whatd’youmean?Whyshouldn’tthey?”TheCommanderchewsawhilelongeronhispipestembeforehestartstotalk

ratherhaltinglyagain.“Iwasjust thinkingaboutit—hadanexperienceonce—meninalifeboat,English,overwhelmedmewiththanks,andI’djustsunktheirship!”

Icannolongerpretendindifference.“So?”TheOldMantakesafewmoregurglingdragsonhiscoldpipe,thenfinally

launches out. “The steamer was called Western Star. Beautiful big ship. Tenthousandtons.Unescorted.Pureluck.Bysheerchancewewereinthenecessaryforwardposition.Ifiredaspreadoffour,butonlyonehitanditdidastoundinglylittle damage.The scow simply settled a little deeper in thewater and sloweddown.Thenwe scored anotherwithour stern tube.But shewas still far fromsunk.Icouldseethepeoplegettingintotheboats;thenIsurfaced.“They’dlaunchedtwolifeboats.Steereddirectlytowardus.Camerightwithin

earshotandoneofthemenjustcouldn’tstopthankingusforbeingsuchsplendidpeople. Tookme quite a while to realize they thought weweren’t taking anyfurther action so that they’d have a chance to pull away from the steamer.Thankedusforourfairplay.Truthwaswesimplyhadn’tatorpedointhetubes.Theyofcoursehadnoideawe’dalreadyletflywiththreeotherfish.Ourcrewwasslavinglikecrazy,butreloadingtakesquiteabitoftime.Theythoughtwewerepostponingthecoupdegrace—”Half a glance sidewise and I see theOldMan’s grinning. “That’s how you

achievenobilitybeforeyouknowwhatyou’redoing!”

The radio assigns us a new area. We’re not to proceed to any definitedestination;bywayofachangewe’retochugalongatafixedcourseandspeedagain.AtapredeterminedhourtheboatisthentoreachthespotwheretheC-in-C’sOperationsDivisionwantsustocloseagapintheline.Wewillthenproceedupanddownasusual:halfadayatminimumspeednorthward,halfadaysouth.To my amazement the OldMan is optimistic again. “Something’ll happen

yet…ThedearLordisn’tgoingtodeserthisfrigginglittleWolfPack!Ordon’tyoubelieveinthedearLordGod?”“Ido,ofcourseIdo,”saystheChief,busilynoddinghishead.“OfcourseI

believeinthegreatGasinthesky.”“Youreallyareanevilbastard,”mutterstheOldMan.Whichdoesn’tbother

theChiefabit.Simplytogetarise,heannouncesthatheoncehadavisionofthe VirginMary—”right on the net guard—soft rose-pink with a shimmer ofviolet—but completely transparent—gorgeous! The Lady pointed upward andblewouthercheeks!”

“She probably wanted you to volunteer immediately for the Air Force.Balloondivision.”“Thatwasn’t it,” theChief repliesdryly. “I’d forgotten toventilatewith the

dieselsafterwe’dsurfaced!”TheOldMan’stryingnottolaugh,whichwouldmeanlosingthegame.“You

should report that to the Pope. He’ll canonize you on the spot—only takestwenty-fiveyears,asisusualwiththeHolySee!”We’reunanimousinouropinionthattheChiefwouldmakeahandsomesaint.

“Piousandnoble,”saystheOldMan.“Andevenmoreetherealthanheisnow—anornamenttotheChurch.”

AsIgothroughtheQuarters,thenavigatorisbusyarranginghislocker.Isitdown at the table and leaf through a seaman’s handbook. The navigator digssome photographs out of a worn wallet and hands them to me: badlyunderexposed pictures of some children. Three little boys, bundled up againstthecoldandsittingonasledonebehindtheotherindescendingorderofsize.Inanother picture they’re in bathing suits. There’s an embarrassed smile on thenavigator’sface.Hiseyesarefixedonmylips.“Sturdylittlefellows!”“Yes,allboys.”Butimmediatelyheseemstofeelthatit’snottheplacefortenderemotions,

here between these steel walls damp with condensation. He snatches thephotographsbackasifhe’dbeencaughtdoingsomethingimproper.

Twenty-eighthDayatSea.Thesunisthecolorofboiledchicken,andtheskygrayish-yellow,likechickenbroth.Littlebylittlethehorizonsinksintothemist;anhourlaterstreamersoffogunfurlfromthewateraroundtheboat.“Visibilityzero!”thenavigatorreportsfromabove.TheCommandergivesthe

ordertodive.Whentheboatreaches150feetwemakeourselvescomfortableinthecontrol

room. Legs up, boots propped against the chart chest. The Commander is

sucking and gurgling on hiswell-chewed pipestem.He seems lost in thought.Fromtimetotimehenodstohimself,farawayinhismemories.

ThirtiethDayatSea.Thehorizonisstillempty.Aneastwindhassprungup,bringingthecold.Theguardsonthebridgewrapthemselvesuplikemummies.Insidetheboattheelectricradiatorsareon.Aradiomessagearrives.TheCommandersignsforitandhandsittome.“ToWolfPack:AdvancepatrolareafrompointGtoDtobeoccupiedonthe

twenty-eighth at 08.00. Distance ten miles. Course two thirty degrees. Speedeightknots—BdU.”TheCommanderunfoldsthebigtransatlanticmapandpointswithapencilto

thepositionofour ship.“This iswhereweare—and this iswherewehave togo.”His pencilmoves far south. “Anyway you look at it, thismeans a goodthree days’ sailing. The whole operation seems to have been broken off.Something completely new.No ideawhat’s behind it. Thiswaywe’ll be on alatitudewithLisbon.”“Andoutofthecold,thankgod,”theChiefbreaksin,shivering.Cookie bobs up. He’s furious. “Shit—what a fuck-up! Five big cans of

sardineshave leaked in thehold.Straight into thesugar!”He’sbesidehimself.“Goddammess—nowwecanthrowallthesugaraway!”“Ithinkwe’dbetterkeepit,”saysArio.“Younevercantell—sometimeyou

maywantsugaronyourfish.”

Threedayspassatcruisingspeed,south-southwest,withouttheguardsonthebridgeseeingatraceoftheenemy;onlyemptycasksanddriftingwoodencases.The dull shuttling to and fro of a scouting patrol begins again. The eternal

sameness hasmade all sense of time long since disappear. I don’t know howlong this frigging aroundhas lasted already.Weeks?Months?Or has the boatbeendrivingaroundintheAtlanticforhalfayear?Eventhedistinctionbetweendayandnightseemstobegettingblurred.Oursupplyofstorieshaslongsincerunout.Wetrytocheeroneanotherup

withstalejokes.

A new catchword of approval has spread through the boat like the plague:“Bomfortunal.” No one knows who invented this nonsense, but all at onceeverything is “bomfortunal.” There’s also a new unit of measurementeverywhere, theword“jet.”At first itcroppeduponlyatbreakfast time:“Justonemorejetofcoffeeifyouplease.”Thenitbobbedupasaunitoftime.“SureI’lldoit,butjustwaitajet.”AndnowtheChiefasksmeifIwouldpleasemoveajettooneside.Istayinthecontrolroom,sittingonthechartchestandtryingtoread.After

anhour,theCommanderclambersheavilydownfromthetower.“Verypretty!” he says, lines of anxiety creasinghis forehead.Hepaces the

room threeor four times, nervous as a cat, then lowershimself onto the chartchest beside me; instead of saying anything, he drags at his pipe, long sinceextinguished.IputasidemybookbecauseIfeelhewantstotalk.Wordlessly,westarestraightahead.Iwaitforhimtospeakfirst.Hedrawsatatteredletterwritteningreeninkout

ofhispocketandstrikesthepaperacoupleoftimeswiththebackofhishand.“Here,Ijustcameacrossthisalittlewhileago.Whatacrazynotiontheymusthaveofthewaywelive!”Greenink,asIknow,isthemarkoftheCommander’sfiancée,theflyer’swidow.He thrusts out his lower lip and shakes his head. “Endof subject,” he says

brusquelyandgesturesasiftowipehisownremarksoffablackboard.So,Ithink:nogo.

Although we’re sailing with open hatch, thanks to the improvement in theweather,thepettyofficers’quartersstinktohighheaven.Ofmoldybread,rottinglemons, rotting sausage, of oily exhaust from the diesels, ofwet foul-weathergearandleatherboots,ofsweatandsemen.Thedoorisyankedopenandacloudofdieselstenchcomesinalongwiththe

engine-room watch just relieved. Curses and imprecations. Locker doorsslammedshut.ThedieselmechanicmateFrenssensuddenlyburstsoutsinginglikeadrunk.“Loveandlovealonedrivesourshipandsteersithome…”Ofcourse.Frenssen—asusual.“Wecoulduseanicebeerrightnow!”

“Just cool enough, with a head as white as a lily—and then another—andanother—letthemhissdownyourthroat.Christ!”“Shutup!You’redrivingmeinsane!”Todaytheskyisasslimyassourmilk.Nomotion.Thewaterseemstohave

becomemoreviscid.Thewavessimplystoopover,round-shoulderedandweary;nomorecrests.Onlyoccasionalwhiteveinsshowing in theirblack-green.TheAtlantichasturnedonesinglecolor:thisblackish-green—notasightanywheretocheerusup.Big ships at least offer the eye some color here and there. Funnel insignia,

white-paintedventilatorhoods,redmarkings.Butwithuseverythingisgray.Nota dab of color in the whole ship—only gray, and even the same shadethroughout.Weourselvesblendintoourbackgroundsuperblywell:ourskin isgraduallyturningthesamepale,sicklygray.Nomorebrightpinkcheeksliketheoneschildrenpaintonthefacestheydraw.Eventhebosun,whowaspositivelyapple-cheekedwhenwesailed,nowlooksasifhe’sjustgotupfromasickbed.Still,hecertainlyhasn’t losthisvoice.RightnowIcanhearhimbellowingatsomeone:“Lookwithyourgoddameyes,notyourgoddamasshole!”All of us need a psychiatrist.He could thrash out theFirstWatchOfficer’s

elaborateaffectations—somejob!Alsothattrickofwrinklinghisnose,andhissensitive,oh-so-consideratesmile.TheSecondWatchOfficer’slaughlinesareanothermatter:theywouldhave

tobe retained; thebaby face is still really inprettygoodshape.But theChiefwouldneedintensivetreatment,nervousandoverstrainedasheis—theticattheoutercornerofhislefteye,thewayhismouthtwists,hishabitofsuckinginhischeeks, themeaninglesspursingof his lips, and above all his jumpiness—thatsudden shudder at the slightest noise. At least a small piece of the SecondEngineer’sthickhideneedstobetransplantedontotheChief.AnditmighthelptheSecondEngineeraswell.Heneedsathinnerskin.Then there are theOldMan’s compulsivenoisymannerisms: scratchinghis

beard, sucking on his pipe,making the bowl gurgle so that it sounds like fatfrying on a low fire, snorting through his nose. Sometimes he forces spittlethroughaholeinhisteethtillithisses.JohannisgettingtolookmoreandmorelikeChrist.Whenhepusheshismass

ofpale-yellowhairbackoffhishighforehead,heonlyneedstolowerhiseyestoproduceaperfectlikenessoftheHolyHandkerchief.

EnsignUllmannreallyworriesme.AtfirstIthoughthelookedfullofenergy.Now it’s vanished. I’ve seen him a few times crouched on his bunk, sunk ingloom.

By radio we learn that Meinig’s boat has sunk a refrigerator ship of ninethousandgrossregisteredtons,anunescortedvessel.Istareattheradiogram:almostincredible!Howthehellcouldhehavedoneit

withhisdisabledboat?Meinighasreported—soHabermannisalivetoo.Mighthaveguessedit:Nothing’sgoingtoputhimoutofcommissionsoquickly.“Hemusthavehadplentyofluck,”saystheOldMan.“Youcan’taccomplish

that sort of thing these dayswithout it. If you’re not lucky enough to be in aforward position and be able to station yourself until one of their scows runsright in front of your tubes…everything that’s goingunescorted thesedays isgoing fast. Pursuit from astern is pointless. A fast refrigerator ship simplyoutrunsyou.I’vetriedtoovertakeoneoftenenough—butit’sbeennothingbutawasteoffueleverytime.Evenifwerunatmaximumr.p.m.webarelymakeoneto twoknotsmore than a fast, unescorted single vessel—and if she tacks in afavorabledirectionandwe’retooslowinfollowing,it’salloveranddonewith.”

Thirty-third Day at Sea. The calendar says Wednesday. At eight in themorning we receive a report: “Convoy headed west to be intercepted SquareGustavFritz.”Bentover thechart table, theOldManemits a skeptical, “Wellnow!”Five

minutes of reckoning and he says, “Not exactly favorable, but nevertheless—witha little luck—wemightget there—justabout.”Newcourse,higherspeed.Otherwisenochange.“It’sabout timeweshoveda few tons toward thebottom,”says theSecond

WatchOfficer, and immediately looksembarrassed,becausehe realizes that inourpresentstateofirritationhisremarksoundedmuchtooconfident.Midday.IclimbupbehindtheFirstWatchOfficer,who’sjustgoingonduty.

Theairisheavyandstagnant.Theseahassubsidedunderthediffusedlightand

covereditselfwithagrayskinthatonlyoccasionallyshowsasmallbucklingorswelling:visualboredomthatdampensourspirits.That evening, however, during the Second Watch Officer’s watch, color

appears. Single flat banks of cloud stretched above the horizon begin to glowlikethefire inaforge.Thewholeskyquicklyturnsredandtheseaisoverrunwiththemagnificentglow.Theboatmoveswiththrobbingenginesthroughthisblazing hallucination. Thewhole bodywork gleams. The foreship looks like ahugeanvil.Thefacesofthebridgeguardsarefloodedwithred.Twocolors—redandblack—wouldbeenoughtopaintallthis:sea,sky,ship’shull,andthefacesunderthesou’westers.For a quarter of anhour sky and sea are in conflagration, then the crimson

glowfadesfromthecloudsandtheyinstantlyreturntoadim,sulphurousgray.Now they look likemountains of ashes covering the glowing heart of a smallfire.Suddenlyaspotflamesout in thegraywalldirectlyahead:bellowsseemto

fantheglimmerintolife.Butagain,afewminuteslater,theredgloryshrinks;itgleams fora time like themouthofablast furnaceand finally isextinguishedcompletely:thesunhassunkbeneaththehorizon.Highabovetheparadeofclouds,theheavensstillholdalingeringglow.Only

veryslowlydoesitgrowthinandstriated,andinitsplacecomessaffron-yellow,whichgraduallyturnsgreenishandslowlysinkstothehorizon.Theseamirrorsthispoisonouscolor.Itliesrigid,paralyzedunderitssickly-coloredskin.TheCommandercomesupandobservesthesky.“Gaudybutnotbeautiful!”

heannouncessourly.

WhentheOldManisn’tonthebridge,hespendshourslikeahermitbehindhisgreencurtainorontheperiscopesaddleinthetower.SometimesIhearthemachinerystartup.TheOldManisbored,andisridinghiscarousel.The crew doesn’t hear a sound out of him from one day to the next. They

couldwellbelievethattheboatisvoyagingtheseaswithoutacommander.TheChiefisanotheronewho’sbadlyaffectedbyallthisfriggingaround.He’slostalot of his liveliness, and looks as though he’d put green eyeshadowunder hiseyestoturnhimselfintoademon.Butthegreenishringsaregenuine.Foralongtimenowhe’sgivenupputteringaround—whenhe’snotcheckinghisengines,

youseldomseemoreofhimthanhisbowedheadwiththebrightlineofthepartin his hair: he has succumbed to furious reading. He only lifts his head atmealtimes,andtheCommandersays,“Goodday!”tohispallidface.Sometimeshejustsitsaroundandbitches.Yet the unspoken understanding between the Chief and the Commander

persists despite all the irritability. Between the two of them all tensions haveapparentlylongsincebeenworkedout.Sevenpatrolstogetheralready.We’re almost three thousandmiles away frombase.Theboathas an action

radiusofaboutseventhousandmiles.Butsincewe’veburnedupsomuchfuelwallowingbackandforthonpatrol,there’sonlyasmall“margin.”Withsuchareducedsupplywecouldhardlybebroughtfromanygreatdistancetoattackaconvoy. Our reserves would be barely sufficient for the lengthy positionalmaneuveringathighspeedthat’sinevitablewhenattacking.

TheFirstWatchOfficermakes theChief nervous, opening and shuttinghislocker,clatteringhiskeys,andscribblinginhiscoloredlooseleafnotebooks.Nooneknowswhathe’sputtingdowninthem.“He’smemorizingtheorderofthecathousesforourreturntoharbor,”isthe

Chief’s theory, as the First Watch Officer disappears in the direction of thecontrol room. One of his notebooks is lying on the table. I can’t resist thetemptationtoleafthroughit.PersonnelManagementonaU-boatistheredtitleonthefirstpage.Ibegintoturnthepagesandcan’ttearmyselfaway.PointI:PeculiaritiesofU-boatLife.Life on board for long periods ismonotonous.Onemust be able to endure

longweeksoflackofsuccess.Whendepthbombsareaddedtothis,itbecomesa“warofnerves”whichweighsprincipallyuponthehigher-rankingofficers.More red pencil:Themorale of the crew is dependent on: and underneath,

pointbypoint,inblueink:1.Thedisciplineofthecrew.2.The successof theCommander. If theCommander is successful, thenhe

maybeafool,butthecrewwillalwayslovehimmorethananunsuccessfulone.ButitispreciselytheunsuccessfulCommanderwhomostneedsahighlevelofmoraleamonghiscrew.

Redpencil:Discipline;thenmoreblue:The Commander’s duty is to ensure that the spirit of the good soldier

predominatesonhisboatandthattheopinionsofthebadsoldiercountforlittle.Hemustbelikeagardenerwhopullsuptheweedsandtendsthegoodplants.Anotherredtitle:QuotationfromaSpeechbyLieutenant-CommanderL.Iamwellawarethatwomencandestroythefightingmoraleofthesoldier,but

Ialsoknowthattheycanstrengthentheirhusbandsintheirattitudes,andIhavefoundthatmarriedmeninparticularreturnfromleavewellrestedtobeginthenew patrol against the enemy. Onemust tell married petty officers what theyshould expect from a soldier’s wife. I was happy to have the opportunity toentertainthewivesofmostofmymenatacoffeepartyinmyhome,tocometoknow them and to be able to tell them that a brave attitude on their partwasexpected. I believe thatmany of them gained new backbone from this, and Ihaverequestedmywifetowritetothemandtokeepintouchwiththem.Appealmustbemade to the ironwill to sustainhealthandovercomesmall

difficulties.IftwosoldiersareeligiblefortheIronCrossandonlyoneCrosscanbeawarded,Iprefertogiveit tothemanwhostaysonboardandcontinuestosail rather than to the one whose good luck has made it possible for him tobecomeapettyofficerorasergeantandwhomustthereforereturntolandduty.FinallytheIronCrossisnopilgrim’smedalbutarewardforbraveryinthefaceoftheenemywhich,oncewon,mustimmediatelybeearnedagain.I can hardly believemy eyes: so this is ourFirstWatchOfficer’s primer! I

don’thavetoreadfartocomeacrossanothergem.Onlongpatrolsagainsttheenemyagreatdealofcrockeryisbrokenbyyoung

soldiers.It iswellknownthatadmonishmentdoeslittlegood,especiallyasthesea oftenmakes serving difficult. I now have an inventory of crockerymadeeveryweek. If toomuch ismissing, the stewardsmust eat out of tin cans forthree days. Another severe penalty is the prohibition of smoking. For cardlovers,beingforbiddentoplayforthreedaysworkswonders.Nowcomesamimeographedpage.It is a matter of honor, and I regard it as such, that etiquette should be

maintained on board. In harbor—more than at sea, naturally, where it mustsuffice that someone shout “Attention” the first time theCommander enters aroom—the senior soldierpresent should reportwhat isbeingdone, justas theWatchOfficerreportsonthebridge.Inharbor,duringrefitting,theremustbean

assembly for inspection at least once a day. I lay especial emphasis on theraisingoftheflag.Atseatheconditionofthelockersmustalsobecheckedfromtimetotimeandneatnessthroughouttheboatconstantlymaintained…At sea I have had one deadman and a couple ofwounded.As substitute I

securedavolunteerordinaryseamanfromaGermansteamer.Hewasnineteenyears old, had been abroad onGerman ships since hewas under fourteen.Hecameaboardwithastrawhatonhisheadandsaid,“‘Day,Cap’n,I’mtocomeaboardhere.”Hehadnoinklingoftheouterformsofsoldiery.Iturnedhimoverfor guidance tomy best petty officer,who taught him towalk and stand, andindoctrinated himwith basic principles.After fourteen dayswe swore him in.Forthiseventwedived,thebowcompartmentwasadornedwithflags,andwemadetheoath-takingaproperlysolemnoccasion.Themanhadlearnedtheoathby heart in advance. In my address I told him about the duties of a Germansoldier.Thecrewsatthereintheirbrowntropicaluniformshirts.Inhonorofthedaytheyhadallgivenoneanotherproperhaircutsandhaddecidedinadvanceon the songs to accompany the celebration, so that the singing reallywentoffverywell. In additionwe presented the young seamanwith “TheDuties of aSoldier.”Oneofthemenhadwrittenitoutinanelegantscript.TheheadingFeastsandCelebrationsmakesmeparticularlycurious.AtAdvent timeeverycompartmentglowedwithelectricAdventcandleson

Christmaswreaths that had beenmade by twisting together napkins and toiletpaperpaintedgreen.TheChristmasbakingtookfourteendaysandeveryonehada taste of it, just as at home. On Christmas Eve the festively bedecked bowcompartment features a Christmas tree made by ourselves. Saint Nicholasappears,wrappedinasimplesheet,sinceweareinthetropics,andgiveseverysoldiersweetsandaninscribedbook,allappropriatelyaccompaniedbybeautifulsongsandsuitablespeeches…onboard,wesayagreatdealwithmusic.Ifwedive,thentheoff-dutywatchlearnsaboutitbyhearingthestirringdivingmarchthat isplayed toourChiefwhenhe’s supervising thehydroplanes.Andwhenthewatchistoprepareforsurfacing,theyarealertedbythemarch“TodayWePlowThroughtheOpenSea.”

VFIRSTATTACK

Theradiomanhandsamessageoutoftheshack.Nothingonhisfacebutthatperpetual,harmlessgrin.The FirstWatchOfficer, all importance, puts the decodingmachine on the

table,laystheradioman’sstripofpaperbesidehim,cockshisheadfirsttoonesideandthentotheotherlikearoosterlookingforakernelofcorn,checksthealignment,andfinallytapsthekeys.DuringthisproceduretheChiefmanagestolookasboredasaBritishracing-

stableowner.TheSecondWatchOfficer,who’soffduty,doesn’teven lookupfromhisbook.Ijoininthegeneralpretenseofindifference.The First Watch Officer has barely decoded the last word when the

Commandersnatchesthestripofpaperoutof themachine—withaneagernessthatcontradictshis lookofcontempt—reads itwithagrimexpression,getsupandheadsforthecontrolroomwithoutsayingaword.ThroughthecirculardoorIseehimcarefullyadjustingthelampoverthecharttable.TheChiefandIexchangepregnantglances.“Aha!”IcontrolmycuriosityforasuitableintervalbeforeIgointotheControlroom

after the Commander. The navigator is there already—as if conjured up bymagic.TheOldMan’s torso is bent over the sea chart; in his left hand he has the

radiogram,inhisrightthedividers.Hedoesn’tlookatus.“Nottoobad,”hemurmursfinally.Thenhesilentlypushestheradiomessage

overtome.“08.00hoursconvoysightedSquareBrunoMax.Steeringnortherlycourse.Drivenoffbyflyers.Enemyoutofsight—UR.”TheCommanderpointsthedividersatSquareBrunoMax.Notfarfromour

presentposition.“Ataroughguess,weshouldbeabletogetthereintwenty-fourhoursattop

speed.”

NowwehavetowaitandseewhetherURestablishescontactagain:onlythenwouldwebeorderedinpursuitoftheconvoy.“Maintaincourseandspeedforthetimebeing.”Thenextcoupleofhoursarerifewithspeculation:“Looksliketheconvoy’s

heading forAmerica. But then it could always beGibraltar. Can’t be sure,” Ihearthenavigatorsay.“UR—that’sBertold,”saystheOldMan.“Goodman.Nobeginner.Hewon’t

lethimselfbeshakenoffsoeasily…theymusthaveputtoseaaweekafterus;theywerehavingtroublewiththeirperiscope.”An inviting gesture to me to come and sit beside him on the chart chest.

Expectancy and excitement have made him cheerful. “Always these shittyairplanes,” he says. “Lately they’ve beenworking in hunting units alongwithdestroyers,andonceapacklikethatgetsitsteethintoyou…Thereusedtobehardlyanyflyersaroundhere—thosewerethedays,allright.Allyouhadtodowaskeepwatchonthesurfaceandyouknewprettywellwhatyouhadtoreckonwith.”Thecontrol-roommate,whoisstandingatalittledeskmakingentriesonthe

divinglog,pausesinhiswriting.“They’re trying everything to shake us off. For a long time now they’ve

stoppedstationingtheirdestroyersclosetotheherdofshipping.They’vegotthehang of it. The destroyers patrol at top speed at a considerable distance fromtheirprecioussteamers.Thatway,evenifwemakecontactatthefarthestlimitof visibility, they can force us to withdraw, or go underwater. As for theirsweepers, theyhavethemcavortingaroundwayaheadof theconvoy…there’sjust nomore brotherly love these days. They’ve evenmanaged to rebuild bigfreightersasauxiliaryaircraftcarriers.Andtheyformprotectivegroupsofsmallcarrier-basedplanesanddestroyers that reallymake thingshot forus.All theyneedispropertraininginprecisecoordinationandit’sguaranteedthatanyboatspottedbyoneoftheirbusybeeswillbeworkedoverbythedestroyerstilltheirprecious freighters have run so far the enemy hasn’t a ghost of a chance offindingthemagain.Whichmeansyoudonothingbutbeatyourselftodeathandburnupahellishloadoffuel.”TheOldMan seems completely relaxed. Even talkative. “We really should

have taken the offensivemuch earlier—before the Tommieswoke up and gotthemselvesorganized.Still,whenwarbrokeoutwehadonlyfifty-sevenboats,andnomore than thirty-fiveof themweresuitable for theAtlantic.Obviously

nowherenearenoughtoblockadeEngland.Justatentativesortofstranglehold.Andthearguments!ToriskeverythingonU-boatsortobuildbattleshipsaswell.We were never really trusted by the old fogeys in the Imperial Navy. Theywantedtheirproudfleet,regardlessofwhetherbattleshipswerestillanyuseornot.We’rewhatyoumightcallacon-serv-a-tiveclub!”Later,asIamstretchingmylegsinthecontrolroom,anewradiogramcomes

in.“09.20hoursdivedtoavoidaircraft.Onehourunderwater.Enemyconvoyinsightagain.SquareBrunoKarl.Positionofenemyuncertain—UR.”“Itellyou,he’snotgoingtolet‘emslipthroughhisfingers.Navigator,does

theconvoyseemtoberunningonaparallelcourse?”This time theCommander takesonly a fewminutes at the chart table, then

turns abruptly and orders, “Course two hundred seventy degrees. Engines fullspeedahead!”Ordersareacknowledged.Theenginetelegraphrings.Aheavyshudderruns

throughtheboat,andthepoundingoftheenginesrisestoafierceroar.Oho,sotheOldMan’sgoingtogetintoit!Heisn’tevenwaitingforanorder

fromKernével.Theroarofthedieselsswells,singsinahigherkey,thenonceagainsounds

dulland rumbling,almost smothered: thedieselmusicof thesea.Themuffledtone means a big wave meeting the bow, the clear singing that the boat isshootingthroughatrough.Everywheremen are atwork reinspecting the connections, as they have so

often before. They do it of their own accord, inconspicuously, almostsurreptitiously.“Permissiontocomeonthebridge?”“Jawohl!”FirstIlookatthewake.It’sboiling-white,thehuge,thick,gleamingtrainofa

dressstretchingasfarastheeyecansee,thinningtobottle-greenatthehorizonin individual tattered strands, as if it had parted at the seams. Both sides arebanded in light green, the shade of translucent beer-bottle glass. Over thegratingsdriftbluewhite fumes from thediesels. I turn toward thebowandgetstruck in the face by awhiplash of spray. Sea head-on and the diesels at fullspeed—shouldhaveexpectedwhatitwouldbelike.Waterdripsfrommynose.“Congratulations,”saystheSecondWatchOfficer.

I squint to look at our foreship from the protection of the bulwark.We’retearing along so hard that the bow is throwing out sheets ofwater, and broadstreaksoffoamboiluparoundthesides.The Commander’s hands are thrust deep into the pockets of his leather

trousers.Hisonce-white,batteredcapwith itsgreentarnishedinsignia ispulledfardownoverhisface.He’ssearchingskyandwaterwithnarrowedeyes.Againandagainheurgesthebridgeguardstokeepasharplookout.Hedoesn’tgobelow,eventoeat.Afullhourpassesbeforeheclimbsdowntohavealookatdevelopmentson

thechart.Igotoo.Thenavigatorisstillbusycalculating.Anewsmallpencilcrossonthehydrographicchartshowsthelastpositionof

the enemy. Now our own chart allows us to read off his course and speed.Another pencil cross: the intersection of his assumed course with ours. Ourthoughts are drawn compulsively to this point, like a compass needle to thenorth.Hourafterhourgoesby.Fuelracingthroughthepipes.“Thisisburningupaprettyload!”IhearDoriansay.TheChiefissupposedto

beoutofearshot.TheSecondWatchOfficercomesinwithanewradiogram.“Aha!”saystheCommanderwithobviousanticipation.Heevencondescends

to read it aloud. “To UA: Proceed immediately at top speed against convoyreportedbyUR—BdU.”“WatchOfficer:Steerthreehundredfortydegrees.Furtherorderstofollow.”

Therepetitionofthecommandechoesbackfromthehelmsmaninthetower.OnthecharttheCommanderpointsoutfirstthepositionoftheconvoy,then

ours.“Weoughttobetheretomorrowmorningaroundsixo’clock.”Bertolddarenotattacknow.It’smoreimportanttomaintaincontact—notto

lettheenemyescape,tosendshortsignalsuntilotherboatscanassemblefromthefarreachesoftheAtlantic.“Surelyit’sgoingtowork,”Icommentcautiously.“Noweddingreceptionbeforethechurchservice,”theCommanderwarnsme.Questioningfacesappearintheroundopeningofthedoorway.Totheirgreat

amazement the men see their Commander hopping around and around the

controlroom,fromonefoottotheother,likeabearwithasorehead.“Yousee!”saysDorian.“JustwhatIalwayssuspected—”The Commander takes the microphone of the public address system to

announcetoallcompartments:“TheboatisoperatingagainstaconvoylocatedbyUR.Startingatsixtomorrowmorningwecananticipatecontact.”Acracklingintheloudspeaker.Nothingmore.TheCommandertiltshisheadwayback.Hiselbowsareproppedbetweenthe

spokesofthehydroplanehandwheel.Hefreeshisrightarm,takesthepipeoutofhismouth,makesanall-embracinggesturewith thestem,andbeginsabruptly,“Marvelousthing,boatlikethis.Somepeopleareagainsttechnology.Supposedtostultifyyou,impairyourdrive,nonsenselikethat!”Hepauses,andagoodtenminutespassbeforehetakesupthethreadagain.

“Butthere’snothingmorebeautifulthanaU-boatlikethis.Don’tmeantosoundfanatical—godforbid!”Hetakesadeepbreathandproducesafewsnortingsoundsinself-mockery,

thengoesontalking.“Sailingshipsaremarveloustoo.Nothingintheworldhasmorebeautifullinesthanasailingship!Servedonathree-masteryearsago.Herbottomyardwasfortyfeetabovethedeck.Agoodhundredandseventyallthewayup.Inbadweathernoonewantedtoclimbuptotheskysail.Andifanyonefellyoucouldheartheimpactallovertheship.Happenedthreetimesonasinglevoyage.Specialkindofthud—dullbutpenetrating—andeveryoneimmediatelyknewwhathadhappened.”TheOldManpausesandletsuslistentothegurglingofhiscoldpipe.“Wonderfulship,that.Eachholdasbigasachurch—thenaveofachurch—

probablywhytheycallthemnaves.Usuallyhadsandasballast.Agooddealofitwasdifferentfromthis.”TheOldMangrins.“Foronething,wecouldstretchourlegsproperly!”For awhile the fistwith the pipe remains poised inmid-air. Then,without

puttingthepipeaway,hepusheshiscapfarbackonhishead.Histangledblondhairprotrudesfromunderthepeak,givinghimadaredevillook.“NothingIlovemore than the soundof thesediesels running flat out.And somepeople covertheir ears if they so much as hear them!” The Old Man shakes his head.“There’re somewho can’t even stand the smell of gasoline.My fiancée can’tabidethesmellofleather.Funny!”Hesuddenlyclamsup,likeaboywho’sletsomethingslip.

Noappropriatequestionoccurstome,sowebothsitinsilencestaringatthefloor plates. Then the Chief appears to ask whether the port diesel can bestoppedforfifteenminutes.Reason:suspecteddamagetothecrankshaft.TheCommandersuddenlymakesafaceasifhe’dbittenintoalemon.“Tsch,

Chief—ifwehavenochoice.”The Chief disappears, and a few moments later the tone of the diesels

slackens.TheCommanderbiteshislowerlip.Onlywhenanewradiomessageishandedtohimdoeshisfacelightupagain.

“LastobservedpositionofenemySquareBrunoAnton—UR.”The second watch assembles in the control room and makes ready. Safety

beltsarenolongerinuse.Asthebighandoftheclockapproachestwelve, thefour men climb up. “Course three hundred forty degrees, starboard dieselrunning full speed—port diesel stopped,” the helmsman reports as the watchchanges.Thelookoutswhohavebeenrelievedcomedown.Theirfacesarethecolorof

boiled lobster.Thenavigator,who is the last todescend into thecontrol room,comes toattention. “Reporting fromwatch.Light cloudcover fromnorthwest.Windnorthwesttowest.Veeringcounterclockwise.Shippingalotofwaterduetohighspeed.”Asthoughinconfirmation,asurgeofwaterlandsonthefloorplates.“Thanks.”Thefoursalute,thenshakethemselveslikedogs.Waterfromtheir

rubber coats flies all over the control room.One of themventures a question.“Howfarnowfromthescows?”“Stillawholejet!”repliesthecontrol-roommate.Thestewardcomesthrough.Seemstobefeelinghisoats,trippingalonglikea

headwaiter.Surprisinghehasn’tgotanapkinclaspedunderhisarm.Afterthestewardit’sthecookonhiswaytothebowcompartment.Hehasthe

ingratiatingsmileofatavern-keeper.“Pure play-acting today,” says theOldMan, not noticing that he himself is

performing the leading role ashe sits inhis cornerbenevolently surveyinghischildrenlikeacontentedfather.It’sas thoughwehadbrokenoutofaclinchandcouldbreathefreelyagain.

Nomoreaimlesssearching,nomorepatrolingupanddowninthesamearea,aclearcourseatlast,fullspeedaheadtowardtheenemy.TheonlyonewhotakesnojoyinthedieselroarandthehissingofthewavesistheChief.“There’salot

ofmyoilgone tohell,”hegrowlswitha lookofdisgust.Butevenhesoundssatisfiedwhenheannouncesthattheportdieselisreadyagain.“Fine,Chief,goodtohearit!”saystheOldMan.“Nowlet’sseewhatyoucan

dowithyoursecondwind.”Imoveoff in thedirectionof thebowcompartment.As soonas Iopen the

door I notice that the excitement has taken hold here too. The cook appearsbehindmewith abigpitcherof lemonade.Theoff-dutywatchgathers aroundhimlikeahordedyingofthirst.“Here’s hoping something comes of it all this time,” Little Benjamin

proclaimsstoutly,almostbeforehe’sfinisheddrinking.“Icanwait!”saysSchwalle,hard-nosed.“Well,I’mfedupwiththisfriggingaround!”“Hero!”jeerssomeoneoutofthehalfdarknessfartherforward.“Don’t letyourcouragerunawaywithyou, littleone.You’reokay theway

youare!”“You’veprobablybeenswillingfunnywateragain,”saysthesamevoicefrom

thedarkness.“Somethingnotsuityou?Thesenegativetypesgivemeapainintheass.”For awhile there’s nothing but the sleepy thrumming of radiomusic to be

heardoverthefluctuatingroarofthewaves.Allatoncetheconversationturnstothereportedconvoy.“IftheOldManwantstogetanythingdone,he’sgottogettheretonight,”thetorpedomechanicasserts.“Why’sthat?”thebridgejohnnyasks.“BecausetomorrowisSunday,youimbecile!”LittleBenjaminsputters.“It’s

intheBible.ThoumusthonortheSabbathandnotviolatethysister.”IfeelasifI’minaroadcompany.Ourseagoingamateurtheatricalsareaplay

about imperturbability, coolness, andheroism; theactorsarealso talkingawaytheirfear.

Theseagrowsrougherduringthenight.IcanfeelitclearlyasIdoze.Shortlyafterfiveo’clockIclimbuptothebridge.TheSecondWatchOfficer

is incharge.TheCommander’s there too.Morninghalf light.Theboatbuffets

the darkwaves. Streamers rise like smoke from their crests, andmorewaterysmoke fills the valleys between.An agony ofwatchfulness: if the convoy hastackedinthisdirection,wemayinterceptitscourseatanyinstant.Thesun risesastern,amilkydisk.Aheadofus thesky isblockedbyblack

walls of cloud. Very slowly they free themselves from the horizon as thoughdrawnoutofasailloft:patchesthatarenofurtheruse.Itremainsmisty.“Damnedpoorvisibility,”growlstheSecondWatchOfficer.Soonmoredarkcloudcovercomescreepingtowardusjustabovethewater,

drapedlikeadingycurtain.Immediatelyinfrontofusitbeginstofrayout.Thestrandsareblack-graylikethecloudsthemselves,andstretchdowntothewater.Thehorizondisappears.Another cloud a few points to port can no longer hold its burden of rain.

Before longthe trailingfringesof the twocometogether.Alreadyafewdropsarefalling.Theymakelittlepeckingsoundsonoursou’westersandjackets.Therain front swells out on both sides. Larger and larger sections of the horizonvanish into theblindingmist.Adarknet is being thrownaround theboat; it’salreadyclosingbehindus;nowthere’snorangeofvisionatall.Intently,inchbyinch,wesearchthegraycurtainforsomesignoftheenemy.

Everygraywallmayhideadestroyer,everyracingcloudadivingplane.Spraycomesflyingoverthebulwark;mytonguetastesofsalt.Mysou’wester

isaroof.Therainpoundsdownonit,andIcanfeelthesharpblowsofeachdroponmyscalp.Ourblue-greenoilskinsglitterinthewet,andrainshootsdownthefoldsintorrents.Westandlikeblocksofstonewhiletheskyemptiesitselfoverus.Mustbe seveno’clocknow.Weshouldhavemadecontactwith theconvoy

aroundsix.IhearDoriancursing.“Thisweatherisforthebirds.I’mfedtotheteethwith

it!”TheSecondWatchOfficer immediately turnsonhim to shout, “Lookout,man,you’remeanttobeonwatch.”Despite the Turkish hand towel wrapped around my neck, the water has

soakeddownasfarasmybelly.I climb inside, and the control-room mate greets me expectantly. To his

disappointment Iproducenothingbuta sighof resignation. Igooff tochangemyclothesandputthewetthingsintheE-room.

“Windnorthwestfive,searunningfour,skyovercast,visibilitypoor,”runsthetextpreparedforthewarlog.Therollingoftheboatisgettingsteadilyworse.Thelastreportedcontactisnowthreehoursold.“Enemychangingcourseto

one hundred ten degrees. Proceeding inwide formation. Four columns.Aboutthirty steamers.” Since then no further news.Our diesels are still running fullspeed.Iheartheseafiringsalvoaftersalvoagainstthetower.Weseemtobecaught

intheaftermathofahighgroundswellandthewindiswhippingitupagain.Ateighto’clockthewatchischanged.“What’sitlooklike?”IsenbergaskstheBerliner.“Well,thelightrain’sgone.Nowit’sjustpouringbuckets!”“Cutthecrap—what’sreallyhappening?”“Blownitselfout—nothingdoing—fog.”SuddenlytheOldManbeginsswearing.“Damnandfuckthisfilthyweather!

Alwaysjustwhenwedon’tneedit.Couldeasilygoracingpastandmissthemby a couple of miles. Goddam pea soup!” And then, “If only Bertold wouldmakeamove!”Nonewsignalarrives.Without another contact report we’re up the creek: our calculations were

neverthataccuratetobeginwith.Theboatthatmadecontactcan’thavehadthechance to take an astronomical fix in the last forty-eight hours.The skymustcertainlyhavebeenasconstantlyovercastforthemasforus.Sothey’vereportedapositionarrivedatbydeadreckoning.EvenifthenavigatoronBertold’sboathascalculatedexactly,hecanonlyguessatthedisplacementoftheboatbytheseaandthewind.Silence fromheadquarters.HasBertoldbeen forced todive?Surprisedbya

destroyer?No chance of getting a sighting from the other boats sent after the convoy.

Afterall,theywerefartherawaythanwewere;it’snaturalenoughthattheyhavenothing to contribute.ButBertold, the contact boat—surely he ought to knowsomething.“Mustbestuckinthesamepeasoup,”saystheOldMan.Theengines throbsteadily.There isn’tmuchfor theChief todonow.“This

weathermustbegivingourcolleaguesabadtime.”

Ittakesmeawhiletorealizehe’ssympathizingwiththecrewsoftheenemyships.Thenheadds,“Thosedestroyercrewsreallytakeabeating—tincans.”Heseesmystartledexpressionandcontinues:“It’strue.Ourowndestroyers

no longer put out to sea if there’s the slightest stormcloudoutside theharborwall.”Thecontrolroomisfillingup.Everyonewithanykindoflegitimateexcuseto

bethereseemstohaveappeared.Inadditionto theCommander, thenavigator,andthecontrol-roommatewithhistwoassistants,IseetheFirstWatchOfficer,theSecondEngineer,andDorian.“We’vehad it!Take it fromme!” saysDorian,but so softly thatonly Ican

hear.Theothersaresilent—theyseemtobesuddenlystruckdumb.TheOldManjerksuphisheadandorders,“Preparetodive!”Iknowwhathehasinmind:asonarsearch.Thesoundsofenemyenginesand

propellerscarryfartherindeepwaterthanwecanpossiblyseeonthesurface.The usual series of orders and maneuvers follows. I glance at the depth

manometer. The pointer begins to turn and suddenly the roaring of thewavesceases.TheCommanderhastheboatleveloffatahundredfeetandcrouchesinthe

passageway beside the sound room. The face of the hydrophone operator, litfrom below, looks absolutely expressionless. His eyes are empty. With theheadpiececlampedoverhisears,he’sconductingasearchineverydirectiontopickoutsometraceoftheenemyfromthegeneralunderwatersounds.“No target?” The Commander asks again and again. And after a while,

impatientandtense,“Nothingatall?”Foramomenthepressesoneoftheearpiecestohisownhead,thenpassesthe

instrumenttome.Ihearnothingbutasurginghumlikethenoisefromaconchshellwhenyoupressitagainstyourear.

Theboathasbeenrunningunderwaterforanhour.Nohydrophonedirectionalbearing. “That’s theway it goes,”murmurs theChief,who keeps running hisfingersnervouslythroughhishair.“Fucked!”sayssomeonehalfunderhisbreath.

TheCommanderisabouttopullhimselftohisfeetandgivetheordertotheChieftosurfacewhenhecatchessightofthehydrophoneoperator:eyesclosed,mouth tight shut, and face contracted as if in pain. He swings his equipmentslowlyright,thenleft.Finallyhemovesthewheelafractionofaninch:anoise!Struggling to control his excitement, he announces, “Sound bearing sixtydegrees—veryweak!”TheCommanderstraightensupwithajerkandgrabsoneoftheearpieces.His

facetakesonanintenseexpectancy.Suddenly the operator gives an almost imperceptible shudder and the

Commandersuckshislipsbetweenhisteeth.“Depthcharges!They’rerakingsomebody.What’sthebearingnow?”“Seventy degrees—moving astern—longway off!”TheCommander climbs

throughthecirculardoorintothecontrolroom.Hisvoiceisharsh:“Coursefiftydegrees!Preparetosurface!”Andthentothenavigator,“Noteforthewarlog:‘Despiteconditionofweatherdecidedtoproceedonsurfaceagainstconvoy.’”

Theweatherhasgrownevenworse.Low-hangingsquallsofraindarkentheskyaroundus.Allthedaylightisgone:Itmightaswellbeevening.Wind-drivenspraycoversthewaterylandscapewithapalemist.Theboat’s rollingheavily.Waves coming from theportbeam.Water spurts

throughtheopenhatch,butwehavetokeepthisopenbecausetheenemymaysurprisetheboatatanymoment.Thepropellersrace,thedieselsarerunningflatout.TheCommanderisrooted

to the bridge. Under the rain-slicked, downturned brim of his sou’wester hesearchesthesea.Hestandsmotionless;onlyhisheadpivotsslowlyfromsidetoside.AfteraquarterofanhourIclimbdowntoinspectdevelopmentsonthechart

table.Thenavigatorishardatworkcalculating.Withoutliftinghiseyeshesays,“Hereweare—andhere’swherewecanexpect theconvoy.Unless it’s tackedagain.”Standingaroundaimlesslyembarrassesme.Ialreadyhavemylefthandonthe

aluminumladderwhenItellmyselfthatallthisclimbingupanddownmakesmelooknervous.Justtakeiteasy:relax.Whatever’shappening,I’llfindoutingood

time.Howlateisitreally?Pasttwelve?Well,Ijusthavetoactasthoughnoneofthisisoutoftheordinary,soIpeeloffmywetthings.I sit in themess, trying to read a book, until the steward finally brings in

platesandcupsforlunch.TheCommanderdoesn’tappear.We’vescarcelysatdownatthetable—theChief,theSecondEngineer,andI

—when there’s a roar from the control room. The Chief looks up quickly. Areportcomesdownfromthebridge.“Mastheadofftheportbow!”Almostwithoutthinking,I’mhalfwaytothecontrolroom:theconvoy.I’m ahead of the Chief to the bridge. The rain is worse. My sweater is

immediatelysoakedfromsprayandthedownpour.Iwasinsuchahurry,Iforgottograbmyoilskinfromitshook.I hear the Commander. “Hard to starboard. Steer one hundred eighty

degrees!”Abridgeguardhandsmehisbinocularsunasked. I start searching thesame

area as the Commander. Gray streamers of rain. Nothing else. Holding mybreath,Iforcemyselftostaycalm,searchtherighthandedgeofthisbannerofwaterandthenswingmyglassesveryslowlyacrossittotheleft.There—inthestreaks of gray—a hairbreadth line that immediately disappears again. Anillusion?Imagination?Itakeadeepbreath,relaxmyknees,givemyselfagentleshake,balancetheglassesonmyfingertips.Theboatheavesunderme.Ilosemybearings,thenreorientmyselfbytheCommander.Thereitisagain.Ittremblesanddancesintheglasses.Amast!Nodoubtofit.But—amastand

noaccompanyingplumeofsmoke?Onlythissinglehairline?HardasI look,Icanfindnothingelse;itseemstobepushingitswayslowlyoverthehorizon.Every steamer is supposed to have a plume of smoke that betrays it long

beforeitsradiomastsappear.Sothiscan’tbeasteamer.Hellanddamnation—whereisit?NowIhaveitagain.Ishouldbeabletosee

itwiththenakedeye.Iputdownmyglassesandsearch—thereitisallright!TheCommanderischewinghislowerlip.Hetakesupthebinocularsagain,

mutteringhalftohimself—”Shit!Destroyer!”Aminutegoesby.Myeyesaregluedtothethinlineabovethehorizon.I’m

chokingwithexcitement.Nomoredoubtaboutit:It’saradiomast,sothedestroyeriscomingdirectly

atus.Withoutslowenginesthere’snochancewecangetawayonthesurface.

“They must have seen us. Goddammit!” The Commander’s voice hardlychangesatallashegivesthealarm.OneboundandI’mdownthetowerhatch.Bootsringingonthefloorplates.

The Commander is the last in. He pulls the hatch shut. Even before it’scompletelysealedheorders,“Flood!”He stays in the tower. In a steady voice he calls instructions down to the

control room. “Proceed at periscopedepth!”TheChief balances theboat.Theneedle of the depth manometer stops, then slowly moves backward over thescale. Dufte is beside me, breathing heavily in his wet oilskins. Zeitler andBockstiegel are sitting in frontof thebuttonsof thehydroplane controls, theireyesgluedtothewatercolumninthePapenberg.TheFirstWatchOfficerbendsforwardtolettherainwaterrunoffthebrimofhissou’wester.Noonesaysaword.Onlytheelectrichumofthemotorscanbeheard,asif

throughpaddeddoors,comingfromthestern.From above us, the voice of the Commander finally breaks the silence.

“Reportdepth.”“Seventyfeet!”fromtheChief.ThewatercolumninthePapenbergsinksslowly:theboatisrising.Thelens

oftheperiscopesooncomesclear.Theboatisnotyetonanevenkeel,sotheChieforderswaterpumpedfrom

the forward trim tank toward the stern. Slowly the boat attains the horizontal.Butitdoesn’tstaythere.Thewavesrollusinalldirections.Sucking,dragging,pushing.Periscopeobservationisgoingtobedamneddifficult.Ilistenintently,waitingtohearfromtheCommander,whenthehydrophone

operatorreports,“Destroyerhardonthestarboardbeam!”Ipassthereportup.“Acknowledged.”Then,justasdryly,“Manbattlestations!”Theoperatorisbentoutofthesoundroomintothepassageway,hiseyeswide

andblank.Thedirect lightingmakeshis faceaflatmask, thenosesimply twoholes.AlongwiththeCommander,theoperatorisnowtheonlyoneincontactwith

the world outside our steel tube. The Commander can see the enemy, theoperatorhearshim.Therestofusareblindanddeaf.“Auditorycontactstronger—movingslowlyastern!”

TheCommander’svoicesoundschoked.“Floodtubesonetofour!”JustasIthought:TheOldManisgoingtotakeonthedestroyer.Hewantsa

redpennant.Theonlythingstillmissingfromhiscollection.Whenheorderedperiscopeafterthealarm,Iknewforsure.His voice comes down again. “To control room—Chief—hold our exact

depth!”Howcanhepossiblydoit,Iaskmyself,inthisroughsea?Themusclesinthe

Chief’s gaunt face tense and relax rhythmically. He looks as if he’s chewinggum.Iftheboatrisestoofar,andtheupperpartofthehullbreaksthesurface—disaster:itwillbetrayustotheenemy.TheCommanderisastridetheperiscopesaddleinthenarrowspacebetween

theperiscopeshaftandthetowerwall,hisfacepressedagainsttherubbershell,his thighs spread wide to grip the huge shaft. His feet are on the pedals thatenablehimtospinthegreatcolumnandhissaddlethrough360degreeswithoutmakingasound;hisrighthandrestsonthelever thatraisesandlowersit.Theperiscopemotorhums.He’sloweringitalittle,keepingitsheadasclosetothesurfaceofthewaterashepossiblycan.TheChiefisstandingimmobilebehindthetwomenofthebridgewatchwho

arenowoperatingthehydroplanes.HiseyesaregluedtothePapenberganditsslowlyrisingandfallingcolumnofwater.Eachchange in itmeans theboat isdoingthesame.Notawordfromanyone.Thehummingoftheperiscopemotorsoundsasif

it’s coming through a fine filter; the motor starts, stops, starts again, and thehummingresumes.TheCommanderupsperiscopeforfractionsofasecondandimmediately lets it sink below the surface again. The destroyermust be veryclose.“Floodtubefive.”Theorderisawhisper.It’spassedonsoftlytothemainmotorroom.We’reinthemidstofbattle.Isinkdownontotheframeofthecirculardoor.Thewhisperedreportcomes

backfromastern,“Tubefivereadytofirewhentorpedodooropened.”So—alltubesareflooded.Allthat’sneededistoopenthedoorsandreleasea

blast of compressed air to send them on theirway. TheCommanderwants toknowthepositionofthehelm.Suddenly I notice that I still have a half-chewedbit of bread inmymouth.

Mushybreadandsausagefat.It’sbeginningtotastesour.

IhavethefeelingthatI’velivedallthissomewherebefore.Imagesshiftaboutinmymind, jostling, overlayingone another,merging intonewcombinations.My immediate impressions seem to be being transmitted by a complicatedcircuittomybraincenterfromwhichtheyre-emergeintomyconsciousnessasmemories.TheOldMan’smad—attackingadestroyerinthissea.But it has its advantages too. Our periscope can’t be all that visible. The

streamer of foam that would betray it must be hard to distinguish among thecrestingwaves.Thedripinthebilgeisdeafening.Soundsasifit’scomingoveraloudspeaker.

Luckythateverything’sworkedsofar:noproblemmaintainingdepth.TheChiefwaswellprepared,haditallfiguredout.IftheOldMandecidestofire,theChiefmustfloodatoncetomakeupforthe

weight of the torpedo. Otherwise the boat will rise. A torpedo weighs threethousandpounds—soanequivalentweightofwaterhastobetakenonforeachonelaunched.Multipliedbythenumberoftorpedoesfired—it’salot.NotawordfromtheCommander.It’sverydifficult tohitadestroyer.Shallowdraft.Easilymaneuverable.But

scoreahit,andit’sgoneinaflash,blownaway.Theexplosionofthetorpedo,ageyserofwaterandtornsteel,thennothing.TheCommander’ssteadyvoicecomesdown.“Opentorpedodoors.Switchon

tubesoneandtwo!Enemycoursefifteen.Bowleft.Directionsixty.Rangeonethousand!”The Second Watch Officer puts the figures in the calculator. The bow

compartment reports torpedodoorsopened.TheFirstWatchOfficer relays themessagesoftlybutdistinctly.“Tubesoneandtworeadytofire!”TheCommanderhashishandonthefiringleverandiswaitingfortheenemy

tomoveintothecrosshairs.Ifonlywewereabletosee!Imagination runs riot in this silence. Visions of catastrophe: a destroyer

swinginguntil it’satanglezero.Thefoamingbow, thewhitebonein its teeth,toweringoverus,readytoram.Staringeyes,thesharprendingofmetal,jaggededgesofsteel,greensurgeofwaterthroughfissureslikeopenedstopcocks.The voice of the Commander, as sharp as a descending whiplash. “Close

torpedodoors.Divetotwohundredfeet.Fast!”

TheChiefisonlyafractionofasecondbehindhim.“Harddownboth—bothenginesfullahead!Allhandsforward!”Loud confusion of voices. I flinch, press myself to one side, have trouble

stayingonmyfeet.Thefirstmanisalreadyforcinghiswaythroughthecirculardooraft,staggers,recovershisbalanceandrushes,halfcrouched,pastthesoundroomtowardthebow.Wide-open questioning eyes fixed on me. Chaos: slipping, stumbling,

hurrying,staggering.Twobottlesoflemonadecometumblinginfromthepettyofficers’messandsmashnoisilyagainstthewallofthecontrolroom.Both hydroplanes are hard down.The boat is already distinctly bowheavy,

butthemenkeepcomingfromastern.Theyslidethroughthetiltedcontrolroomasifit’sachute;onefallsfulllength,cursing.Onlytheengineroompersonnelareleftintheafterpartoftheship.Thefloor

slips away beneathme. Fortunately Imanage to grab the periscope stanchion.Thesausagesswingoutatanangle from thewall. Ihear theOldMan’svoicefrom above us, cutting through the scuffling and stamping of boots. “Depthchargesnext!”Hesoundsperfectlycalm,asthoughpassingonapieceofcasualinformation.He climbs down with exaggerated deliberation, as if it’s an exercise.

Traversestheslope,hangingontobothsides,andpropsonebuttockonthechartchest.Hisrighthandgraspsawaterpipeforsupport.TheChiefslowlylevelstheboatoutandorders,“Mandivingstations!”The

seamenwho rushed forwardnowwork theirwaybackhandover handup theslope.Thesausagesactlikeascale:we’restillagoodthirtydegreesbowheavy.Rrabaum!—Rrum!—Rrum!Threecrashingsledgehammerblowsspinmearound.Half stunned, Iheara

dullroar. \Vhat is it?Fearclawsatmyheart: thatroaring!FinallyI identifyit:it’swaterpouringbackintothevacuumcreatedintheseabytheexplosion.Twomoremonstrousexplosions.The control-room mate has hunched his head into his shoulders. The new

control-roomassistant, theBibleScholar, staggersand seizesholdof thecharttable.Anotherexplosion,louderthantherest.Thelightsgoout.Darkness!

“Auxiliarylightinggone,”someonecalls.TheordersfromtheChiefseemtocomefromadistance.Pocketflashlights

cut whitish cones in the darkness. Someone calls for a damage report. Thesectionleaders’repliescomethroughthespeakingtubes.“Bowcompartmentinorder!”—“Mainmotorroominorder!”—“Engineroominorder!”“No leakage,” says the navigator. His voice is as matter-of-fact as the

Commander’s.Beforelong,twodoubleexplosionsmakethefloorplatesdance.“Pumpouttorpedocellone!”Withasharphumthebilgepumpspringsinto

action.As soon as the roar of the detonations has subsided, the pumpwill bestoppedagain.Otherwiseitcouldsupplyabearingtotheenemy’shydrophones.“Raisebow!”TheChieftothehydroplaneoperators.“Boat’sinbalance,”he

reportstotheCommander.“There’ll be more,” says the Old Man. “They actually saw our periscope.

Amazing—withthesearunningthishigh.”Helooksaround.Notraceoffearonhisface.There’sevenanundertoneof

scorninhisvoice.“Nowit’spsychologicalwarfare,gentlemen.”Tenminutespass;nothinghappens.Suddenlyaviolentexplosionshakesthe

wholeboat.Thenanotherandanother.Itquiversandgroans.“Fifteen!”countsthenavigator.“Sixteen,seventeen,eighteen!”TheChiefstaresattheneedleofthedepthmanometer,whichjumpsacouple

ofpointsateachdetonation.Hiseyesarehugeanddark.TheCommander’sareclosed to obliterate his surroundings and concentrate on his calculations: ourowncourse,enemycourse,waysofescape.Hemustreactwithlightningspeed.He’stheonlyoneamongthelotofuswho’sactuallyfighting.Ourliveshangonthecorrectnessofhisorders.“Harda-port!”“Helmharda-port!”“Holdzerobearing!”TheCommandernever stops calculating.Thebasic factors inhis reckoning

changewith each report; hemust determine an escape route according to thestrengthofthesoundofpropellersandtheapproachangleofthedestroyer.Hissensesnolongersupplyhimwithanyimmediateinformation;hemustguidethe

boatlikeapilotflyingblind,hisdecisionsbasedonindicationsgivenhimbytheinstruments.AgainstclosedeyelidsIseethegray-blackcanstwistingheavilyastheyshoot

downwardfromthelaunchers,plungeintothewater,spinlazilyintothedepthsleaving bubbling trails, and then explode in the darkness—blazing fireballs ofmagnesium,incandescentsuns.Water transmitspressuremuchmorestronglythanair.Ifanintensepressure

wave hits a boat it rips it apart at the seams.Todestroy a submergedU-boat,depthchargesdon’thave tohit it; theyneedonlyexplodewithin theso-calledlethal radius. The small depth charges dropped by airplanes weigh about 150pounds,thedestroyerbombsabout500pounds.Atadepthof350feet,thelethalradiusextendsabout275to350feet.Onceyou’velearnedsomething,itsticks.IfeelakindofsatisfactionthatInowknowthiskindofthingbyheart.Forawhileallisquiet.Istrainmyears.Nopropellernoise,nosplashingof

bombs.Only the thin humming of our electricmotors.Not even the sound ofbreathing. The Commander suddenly seems to remember that we’re here. Hedoesn’tmove, but he glances around andwhispers, “I could see them clearly.Theywerestandingonthebridge,gapingstraightatus.Therewerethreemeninthecrow’snest.Acorvette!”Hebendsforwardandwhispers throughthecirculardoor to thesoundman,

“See if they’regoingaway.”Stillbending forwardaminute later,hisquestionbecomesmoreurgent:“Louderorweaker?”Theoperator answers immediately. “Nochange.” It’sHerrmann: face like a

Noh-mask—colorless,eyesandmouththinlines.TheOldManordersusdownfarther.Ourpressurehullcanwithstandagooddeal.Buttheflanges,allthosedamned

piercedsections,areourAchilles’heel.Andtherearetoomanyofthem.The most dangerous bombs for the boat are those that explode diagonally

under the keel, because the underside has the largest number of flanges andoutboard plugs. The deeper you go, the smaller the lethal radius: the waterpressure,whichisitselfathreatatsuchdepthsbecauseoftheoverloadingontheseams, also limits the effective radius of the bombs—at 130, it’s perhaps 160feet.Suddenlyahandfulofpebblesrattlesagainsttheboat.

“Asdic!” Ihear avoice from the sternendof the control room.The jaggedwordsuddenlystandsoutinmyheadinglaringcapitals.A shudder runs downmy spine:Anti-SubmarineDevelopment Investigation

Committee;thesupersonicdetectionsystem!It’stheimpactofthedirectionalbeamagainstoursidethatproducesthislow

tinkling, chirping sound. In the absolute silence it has all the force of a siren.Timebetweenimpulses:aboutthirtyseconds.“Turnitoff!”Iwanttoshout.Thechirpinggratesonmynerves.Noonedares

somuchaslifthisheadorspeak,eventhoughitwillfindusevenifweremainassilentasthegrave.Againstit,silenceisuseless.SoisstoppingtheE-motors.Normal hydrophones are outclassed by the E-motors, but the Asdic isn’tdependent on sound, it reacts to our mass. Depth no longer affords anyprotection.The nervous tension is infectious.My hands are shaking. I’m glad I don’t

havetostandup;insteadI’mabletositintheframeofthecirculardoorway.Itry out actions that require nomajor bodilymovement: swallowing, blinking,grinding my teeth, making faces—a crease to the right, a crease to the left,forcingsalivabetweenmyteeth.Theoperatorwhispers,“Gettinglouder!”TheCommanderfreeshimselffromtheperiscopeshaft,makeshiswaypast

mealmostontiptoe.“Anychangeindirection?”“Bearingstilltwohundredninety-fivedegrees.”Four detonations in quick succession. The roaring, gurgling surge of the

explosionshasbarelysubsidedwhentheCommandersaysinalowvoice,“Shewaswellcamouflaged,afairlyoldship,rathersquat.”Ahardblowagainstmyfeetjoltsmebadly.Thefloorplatesrattle.“Twenty-seven—twenty-eight!”thenavigatorcounts,tryingtoimitatetheOld

Man’selaboratecasualness.Apailgoesrattlingpartwayacrossthefloorplates.“Hellanddamnation—quiet!”Nowit soundsas if thepebblesare ina tincan,beingshaken thiswayand

that; in between is a louder, singing sound, with an underlying quick, sharpchirping, like crickets—the whirling propeller blades of the corvette. I standrigid, frozen. I don’t daremake the slightestmovement; it’s as if anymotion,

eventhesmallestslitheringsound,wouldbringthebeatingpropellerscloser.Notaflickerofaneyelash,atwitchoftheeye,notabreath,notaquiverofanerve,notarippleofthemuscles,notevenagoosepimple.Another five bombs! The navigator adds them to the total. My expression

doesn’t change. The Commander raises his head. Clearly emphasizing eachword, he speaks into the echo of the crashing water. “Keep calm—calm,gentlemen.Thisisnothingatall.”Hisquietvoicedoesusgood,easesourjanglednerves.Nowwearestruckbyasingleringingblow,likeagiantcudgelonasheetof

steel.Twoorthreemenbegintostagger.Theairishazy,hanginginbluelayers.Andagaintheheavyexplosions.“Thirty-four—thirty-five—thirty-six!” This time the counting comes in a

whisper.TheCommander remains firm. “What in theworld—isbotheringyou?”He

withdraws into himself oncemore, calculating courses. It’s deathly still in theboat. After a while the whispering voice comes again. “What’s his bearingnow?”“Twohundredsixtydegrees—gettinglouder!”TheCommanderraiseshishead.He’sreachedadecision.“Hard a-starboard!” And immediately afterward, “Sound room—we’re

turningtostarboard!”Awrenchhastobepassedthroughtothestern.Ireachforiteagerlyandhand

iton.Deargod,tobeabletodosomething—turnhandwheels,adjustlevers,manthepumps…Theoperatorleansoutintothepassagewayagain.Hiseyesareopenbuthe’s

staringintoinfinity.Hesoundslikeamediumspeaking.“Soundsgrowinglouder—twohundredthirty—twohundredtwenty.”“Nonessentiallightsout,”theOldManorders.“Whothehellknowshowlong

wemayneedthecurrent!”The operator reports again, “Attacking again—sounds bearing two hundred

ten degrees—getting louder fast! Quite close!” The excitement has upset hisdelivery.TheCommanderorders:“Bothenginesfullahead!”Thesecondsstretchout.Nothing.Noonemoves.

“Let’shopetheydon’tgettheirfriendsinonit!”TheOldManvoicesafearthat’s been inmybones for a long time: the sweepers, thekillers…apackofdogsisdeathtothehare.Whoever has us on the hook now is no beginner, andwe’re defenseless in

spite of the five torpedoes in our tubes. We can’t surface, we can’t comespeedingfrombehindcoverandthrowourselvesontheenemy.Wehaven’teventhegrimassurance tobehad fromsimplyholdingaweapon inyourhand.Wecan’tsomuchasshoutatthem.Justcreepaway.Keepgoingdeeper.Howdeeparewenow?Ican’tbelievemyeyes:thepointerofthemanometerstandsat465.“Shipyardguaranteethreehundred”flashesthroughmymind.Tenminutespassandnothinghappens.Anotherhandfulofpebbleshitstheboathighupontheportbuoyancytank.I

can see from the operator’s face that more depth charges are coming. He’smovinghislips,countingthesecondsbeforedetonation.ThefirstissowellaimedthatIfeeltheshockallthewayupmyspine.We’re

in a huge drumwith a steel plate for a drum head. I see the navigator’s lipsmovingbutIhearnothing.HaveIgonedeaf?But now I can hear theCommander.He’s ordering higher speed again.He

raiseshisvoicetobeheardoverthepandemonium.“Allright!Carryonjustasyouare,gentlemen,paynoattentiontothisnonsense!Athomethereare…”He breaks off inmid-sentence. Suddenly there’s a humming stillness.Only

theoccasionalswishandslapfromthebilge.“Bowup!Steady!”theChiefordersthehydroplanemen.Hiswhispersounds

tooloudinthesilence.OnceagaintheE-motorshavebeenreducedtocrawlingspeed.Bilgewatergurgles toward thestern.Justwheredoes itallcomefrom?Wasn’titproperlybailedinadvance?“Thirty-eight…forty-one!”thenavigatorcounts.With the roaring andburstingof thebombs still inmyears the silence that

followsseemslikeabizarreacousticalblackhole,bottomless.Probablyjust tokeepthesilencefrombecomingtoopainful,theCommanderwhispers,“I’mnotsurewhetherthosecharactersupthereareincontact!”Atthesamemomentnewdetonationsshakethedepths:theanswerisplain.Oncemoremyearscan’tdistinguishoneexplosionfromthenext.NorhaveI

anyimpressionofwhetherthebombsareexplodingrightorleft,aboveorbelowtheboat.ButtheOldMancanobviouslylocatethem.He’sprobablytheonlyone

whoknowsourpositionrelativetoourtormentor.Oristhenavigatorcalculatingtoo?InanycaseInolongerhavetheslightestclue.Iseeonlytheneedleofthedepth manometer moving slowly forward over the dial. We’re going deeperagain.TheChief is bending forward toward the hydroplane operators.His face is

thrownintounnaturalreliefagainstthedarkbackground,likethatofanactorlitonlybythefootlights,everyboneemphasizedbydarklinesorshadow.Hishandlookswaxen.There’s a black streak across his right cheek.He’s narrowedhiseyesasifdazzledbythelight.The two hydroplane operators crouch motionless in front of their control

buttons.Evenwhentheychangethehydroplanesettingsoneseesnomovement.Theslightpressureofafingerrequiresnoshiftoftheirlimbs.Ourhydroplanesarepower-operated.Whatmorecouldwepossiblywant?Exceptforsomepieceofequipmentthatwouldallowustoobservetheenemyfromwaydownhere.Abreathingspace?I try tosettlemyselfmorefirmly.Thecorvettecertainly

won’t keep uswaiting long. It’s simply circling again; evenwhen it’smovingawayfromus, thegoddamAsdickeepsuscornered.Thepeopleup therehavegoteverymantheycanspareonthebridge,peeringatthechoppysea,searchingthemarbledfoamforsomesignofus.Nothing—zebrapatternsdrawningreen;greenandwhiteoxgallpaperstreakedwithblack…butit’stheiridescentsheenofoilthey’rereallyafter.Stillnomovefromthehydrophoneoperator:nosoundstoreport.A strange clickingnoise.Anewdevice to locate us?Minutes pass.Noone

moves a muscle. The clicking stops; in its place another handful of pebblesstrikes theboat, smallgravel stones this time.Abruptly theCommander raiseshishead.“D’youthinkwe’llgetthem—again?”Getthemagain?Doeshemeantheconvoy,orthecorvette?Heleansforwardandspeakssoftlytothehydrophoneman.“Findoutifshe’s

goingaway.”Secondslaterheasksimpatiently,“Louderorweaker?”“Stayingthesame,”repliestheoperator,andafterawhile,“Gettinglouder.”“Anydeviation?”“Bearingstilltwohundredtwentydegrees.”TheCommanderimmediatelyhastherudderputhardtostarboard.Sowe’re

goingtodoublebackagain.Andnowheordersbothmotorsslowahead.

Dropsofcondensationpunctuatethetensesilenceatregularintervals:Pit-pat—tick-tack—pitch-patch.A hard blow makes the floor plates jump and rattle. “Forty-seven—forty-

eight.”Andthen,“Forty-nine—fifty—fifty-one.”A glance at my wristwatch: 14:30.When was the alarm?Must have been

shortlyaftertwelve.We’vebeenunderpursuitfortwohours!Mywatchhasaredsecondhandonthesamepinasthetwomainhands,so

thatit’sconstantlycirclingthedialinaseriesofjerkymovements.Iconcentrateon this hand, measuring the interval between the individual detonations: twominutes, thirty seconds—another one; thirty seconds—the next; then twentyseconds.I’mhappytohavesomethingtodo.Nothingelseexists.Itakeatightergrip

withmy righthandas though to focusmyconcentration. Ithas tocome toanend.Hasto.Anotherhard,sharpblow:forty-foursecondsthistime.UptothispointI’ve

beenmouthing syllablesnoiselessly,butnow I canclearly feelmy lips spreadintoaflattenedoval,baringmyteeth.NowIneedmylefthandtohangonwithtoo.TheCommanderordersusdownanotherseventyfeet.Almostsevenhundrednow.Aloudcracklingandsnappingrunsthroughthe

boat.Thenewcontrol-roomassistantglancesatmeinfear.“Onlythewoodwork,”whisperstheCommander.It’s the wooden paneling that creaks and snaps so loudly. The interior

structurecan’tstandthecompression.Sevenhundredfeet.Everysquareinchofsteel skin now has to withstand a weight of 284 pounds, which means overtwentytonspersquarefoot.Allthisonahulllessthananinchthick.Thecrackling’sgettingsharper.“Unpleasant,”murmurstheChief.Theexcruciatingtensionexertedonthesteelskinistorturetome:Ifeelasif

my own skinwere being stretched.Another crack resounds, as loud as a rifleshot,andmyscalptwitches.Underthisinsanepressureourhullisasfragileasaneggshell.The ship’s flyappears less than two feet away. Iwonderhowshe likes this

infernaldrumsolo.Eachofuschooseshisownfate:it’sastruefortheflyasitis

forme.Webothembarkedonthisundertakingofourownfreewill.A double blow, then a third, not much weaker than its predecessors. The

peopleuptherearefishingforuswithaneventighternet.Renewedclatteringoffloorplatesanddeafeningafter-roar.Peace lasts only a couple of heartbeats. Then two shattering blows and the

glassplatesofthedepthmanometersfalltinklingtothefloor.Thelightgoesout.Theconeofapocketflashlightwaversacrossthewallsandcomestoreston

thedialofthedepthmanometer.Imakeaterrifyingdiscovery:thehandsofbothmanometers are gone.Thewater gaugebetween the twohydroplaneoperatorshascrackedandisshootingahissingstreamofwaterstraightacrosstheroom.“Leakthroughthewatergauge,”Ihearashakyvoicereport.TheCommandersnarls,“Nonsense,cutthedramatics!”Theemptydialsstareliketheeyesofacorpse.Wecannolongertellwhether

theboatissinkingorrising.Myscalpcrawlsagain.Iftheinstrumentshavefailedus,wehavenowayof

tellingourposition.Istareintentlyattheblackendsoftheshafts,butwithoutapointertheyare

meaningless.The control-room mate fumbles about among the pipelines by flashlight.

Apparentlytryingtoreachsomevalvethatwillcloseoffthespurtingstreamofwater.He’s soaked to the skinbeforehe finds it.Although the flow is chokedoff, he continues to feel about on the floor. Suddenly he’s holding a pointer.Cautiouslyheliftshispreciousfindandplacesitonthesquareshaftofthesmallmanometer,theonethatregistersthelowestdepths.Itfeelsasifallourlivesdependonwhetherthethinstripofmetalwillmove

ornot.Themantakeshishandaway.Theneedlequiversandslowlybeginstoturn.

SilentlytheCommandernodsapprobation.Themanometershowssixhundredfeet.The hydrophone man reports, “Sounds getting louder—two hundred thirty

degrees_twohundredtwentydegrees!”TheCommander takeshiscapoffand lays iton thechartchest.Hishair is

mattedwithsweat.Hetakesadeepbreathandsays,“Keepitup!”

For once his voice isn’t entirely under control. There is an unmistakableundertoneofresignationinit.“Noisesbearingtwohundredtendegrees!Growinglouder—attackbeginning

again!”The Commander immediately orders full speed ahead. A sharp jolt runs

throughtheboatasit leapsforward.TheCommanderleansagainsttheshiningoilycolumnoftheskyperiscope,restingthebackofhisheadonit.Long-forgottenimagesriseinmymind:twocardboarddiskspaintedinspirals

andspinninginoppositedirectionsontheicecreammachinesatcountryfairs.The tangleof redandwhitecompletely fillsmyheadandbecomes the trailoftwodepthcharges,flaringcometsthatconsumeeverythinginablazeofwhite.Thehydrophoneoperatorstartlesme.Anotherreport.Istareathismouth,but

hiswordsdon’tpenetrate.Morewaiting,moreholdingmybreath.Eventhesmallestsoundispainful,a

touchonarawwound.Asifmynerveshadescapedtheouterlayerofskinandwerenowexposed.Ihaveonlyonethought:they’reupthere.Rightoverhead.Iforget to breathe. I’m stifling before I slowly, cautiously, fill my lungs withoxygen.Against closed eyelids I see bombs tumbling perpendicularly into thedepths trailing sparkling air bubbles, exploding into fire. Around theirincandescentcoresallthecolorsofthespectrumflareupinmadcombinations,leaping and dying again but growing steadily more intense until the wholeinterioroftheseaglowslikeablastfurnace.The control-roommate breaks the spell.Gesturing andwhispering, he calls

theChief’sattentiontoacornerofthecontrolroomwhereacanoflubricatingoilisoverflowing.Thisisaboutthemosttrivialproblemimaginablerightnow,butitupsetshim.TheChiefnodspermissionforhimtodosomethingaboutit.Thepipethatis

dripping oil reaches straight into the can. He can’t simply take the can awayfromunderit,buthastotiltittogetitout.Asaresult,moreoilspillsontothefloorplatesandformsanuglyblackpuddle.Thenavigatorshakeshishead indisgust.Thecontrol-roommatewithdraws

the overfilled can as cautiously as a thief trying to avoid setting off a burglaralarm.“Corvette noises receding astern!” reports the operator. Almost

simultaneously, two more bombs explode. But the roar of the detonations is

weakeranddullerthanbefore.“Wayoff,”saystheCommander.Rwumm—tjummwumm!Evenfainter.TheCommanderseizeshiscap.“Practicemaneuvers!That’sthe

sortofthingtheyoughttoworkonathome!”Thecontrol-roommateisalreadybusyfittingnewglasstubesintothebroken

watergauges;heseems toknowthat themeresightof thebreakageeffectsuslikepoison.WhenIstandup,I’mstiffallover.Nofeelinginmylegs.Itrytoputonefoot

infrontoftheother—feelslikesteppingintothevoid.Iholdfasttothetableandlookatthechart.There is the pencil line showing the boat’s course, and the pencil cross

indicatingitslastposition.Andherethelinesuddenlystops—I’mgoingtomakeanoteofthelatitudeandlongitudeoftheplaceifwegetoutofthis.Theoperatorsweepsthewholecircumferenceofhisdial.“Well?”askstheCommander.Heactsbored,pushinghistongueintohisleft

cheektillitbulges.“Goingaway!”theoperatorreplies.TheCommander looks around.Satisfactionpersonified.He evengrins. “As

farasIcansee,gentlemen,theincidentisover.”Hestaggersalittle.“Veryinstructive,ofcourse.First,all thatdamnchasing

around and then a real bomb scare!”He climbs through the circular door andintohiscubbyhole.“Bring me a piece of paper!” Is he going to compose something really

profoundforthewarlogorareportfortheHighCommand?No,it’ssuretobenothingmore than, “Surprisedbycorvette in rain squall.Threehoursofdepthbombpursuit.”Iwouldn’tbetonanythingmorecolorfulthanthat.Fiveminuteslaterhe’sbackinthecontrolroom.Heexchangesaglancewith

theChief,thenorders,“Takehertoperiscopedepth!”Andclimbsdeliberatelytothetower.TheChiefhasthehydroplanesadjusted.“Reportdepth!”TheCommander’svoicecomesdown.“Onehundredtwenty-fivefeet.”Theninsequence:“Sixtyfeet.Forty-fivefeet

—periscopeabovesurface!”

Iheartheperiscopemotorhum,stop,humagain.Minutespass.Notaword.Wewait.NotasoundfromtheOldMan.We look at eachother questioningly. “Somethingwrong?” the control-room

matemurmurs.Finally the Commander breaks the silence. “Crash dive! Deep! All hands

forward!”Irepeattheorder.Thehvdrophoneoperatorpassesiton.FromasternIhearit

inmultipleechoes.Tensewithanxietythecrewrushesthroughthecontrolroomtowardthebow.“Goddamfilthyweather!”theChiefcursesunderhisbreath.Thehandofthe

manometermovesforwardagain:sixty,onehundred,onehundredfiftyfeet…TheCommander’sseabootsappear.Heclambersslowlydownintothecontrol

room. All eyes are fixed on his face. But he merely smiles sardonically andorders, “Bothmotors slowahead.Course sixtydegrees.”Finallyhe enlightensus.“Thecorvette’slyingsixhundredyardsaway.Stopped,asfarasIcouldsee.

Wantedtosurpriseus,thebastards.”TheOldManbendsoverthechart.Afterawhile he turns tome. “Fuckingmaniacs.You can’t be too careful.Well, let’scrawlourwaycomfortablywestwardforthetimebeing.”Then,tothenavigator,“Whendoestwilightbegin?”“At18.30hours,HerrKaleun.”“Good.We’llstaydownforthetimebeing.”Therenolongerseemstobeanyimmediatedanger:atleasttheCommander

was speaking loudly enough. He inhales with a deep snort, arches his chest,holdshisbreath,andnodsfromoneofustotheother.“Afterthebattle,”hesayswithameaningfullookattheconfusionofbroken

glass,strewnoilskins,andupturnedbuckets.I see drawings by Dix: horses lying on their backs, bellies torn open like

exploded ships, all four legs stretched rigidly toward the sky, soldiers sunk intrench slime, teeth bared in final madness. Here on board, however, we mayhave just narrowly escaped destruction, but there are no sprawling tangles ofentrails,nocharredlimbs,nolaceratedfleshbleedingthroughcanvascovers.Afewfragmentsofbrokenglass,damagedmanometers,spilledcansofcondensedmilk, twocrushedpictures in thegangway—theseare theonlytracesofbattle.

Thestewardappears,castsadisgustedlookatthedebris,andbeginstocleanup.ThephotooftheC-in-CU-boats,alas,hasnotbeentouched.But there’sbeena lotofdamage in theengineandmotor rooms.TheChief

recitesalonglistoftechnicaldetails.TheOldMannodspatiently.“Just let her plow along steadily. I have a feeling we’re still going to be

neededaroundhere.”Andthentome,“Timetoeat.I’mstarving!”Hetakeshiscapoffandhangsitontopoftheoilskinsonthewall.“Thefriedeggshaveprobablygonecold,”theSecondWatchOfficerremarks

andgrins.“Hey,Cookie, fry up somemore eggs,” theCommander shouts toward the

stern.I’minadaze.Arewereallystillhereorisitanillusion?There’saringingin

myinnerear,asifsomeone’splayingbackarecordingofthebombsgoingoff.Ican’treallygraspthefactthatwe’vecomethroughthestorminsafety.Isittheresilentandshakemyheadtotrytobanishthesightsandsoundsthathauntme.Still less thananhour since the lastdepthcharges fell, and the radioman is

puttinga recordon thephonograph.MarleneDietrich’svoice issoothing.“Putyourmoneyaway—someothertimeyoucanpay…”It’sarecordfromtheOldMan’sprivatecollection.

At19.00theCommandergivestheorderovertheloudspeakertosurface.TheChief swings himself through the circular door and gives the necessaryinstructions to the hydroplane operators. The bridge watch climbs into theirrubber clothes, stands ready under the tower hatch, and fumbles with theirbinoculars.“Twohundredfeet—onefifty—boatrisingrapidly!”reportstheChief.When

the manometer hand reaches a hundred the Commander orders a hydrophonecheckineverydirection.Noonemakesasound.Ihardlydarebreathe.Nothing.TheCommanderclimbstheladder.WhentheboatisatperiscopedepthIcan

tellfromthesoundofthegearsthathe’sdoingacompletesweep.Wewaitintently:nothing!“Surface!” Compressed air rushes hissing into the diving cell. The

Commanderretractstheperiscope.Ittakesawhileforittosettleintoplacewith

aclick.Onlythendoesheremovehisfacefromtherubbereyepieces.“Towerclear,”theChiefreportsupwardandthen,“Equalizepressure!”TheFirstWatchOfficer turns thehatch spindle, and thehatch springsback

with a snap like a champagne cork. Pressure equalization can’t have beencomplete.Freshairpoursintotheboat.Coldanddamp.Igulpitineagerly.It’sagift—andIsavorittothefull,pumpingitintomylungs,tastingitonmytongue.Theboatpitchesandtosses.“Prepare to blow tanks! Clear for ventilation! Diesel room stand ready to

dive!”TheChiefnodshisapproval.TheCommander’sonhisguard,doesn’twantto

runanyrisks.The circle of the hatch still frames the dark sky. A few scattered stars.

Sparklingandtwinkling,tinylanternswaveringinthewind.“Standbyportdiesel!”“Portdieselready!”The boat drifts, rocking. The hatch wanders back and forth beneath the

shiningstars.“Portdieselslowahead!”Atremblingshudderrunsthroughtheboat.Thedieselfires.TheCommanderordersthebridgewatchandthenavigatortothebridge.“Radiogramtobesent!”Ihearsomeonesay.Thenavigatorisalreadyonhiswaydown.Ipeeroverhisshoulderandcan’t

repressagrin:thetexthe’swritingoutisalmostexactlywhatIhadpredicted.Hecan’tunderstandwhyI’msmiling,andlooksoffended.“Lapidary,”Isay.Buthedoesn’tunderstandthateither.Hemakeshiswayto

theradioshackandIseehimshakinghishead.“Permissiontocomeonthebridge?”“Jawohl!”andIclimbup.The cloud curtain is parting to reveal themoon;where its beams strike the

water, theseaglittersandglistens.Thecloudcurtaincloses,andnowtheonlybrightnesscomesfromafewscatteredstarsandfromthewater.Behindtheboatthefoamphosphoresces—luminousgreenmagic.Waveshissoverthebowlikewaterpouredontohotironplates,butbeneaththesharphissingisacontinuing

dull roar.Occasionally a largerwave rises and strikes the boat’s sidewith theheavy,hollowboomofagong.Bomm—bomm—tsch—jwumm!Rather than being buoyed up bywater, the boat seems to be gliding along

betweenthedepthsandtheheightsonathin,scarredskin—abyssabove,abyssbelow:athousandstoriesofdarknessineitherdirection.Wanderingthoughts—confused,hardlyfocused:Wearesaved.VoyagerstoOrcuswhohavefoundourwayhome.“All the same, it’s a good thing this pond is three dimensional!” the

Commandersaysclosebesideme.

I’m at the table. Breakfast. Fragments of conversation from the Quarters.Goingbythevoice,itmustbeJohann.Heseemstobeinthemiddleofastory:“…turned out the only thing there was a stove. God oh god, was that a

runaround!Nothingtobehad.NotevenwithU-boatinsigniaonmyjacket.Thekitchen cabinet was no problem, thank god. My brother-in-law’s a prisoninspector. He’s having it made in the prison… Of course there’s no babycarriagestobehadeither!RightawayIsaidtoGertrude,‘Doyoureallyhavetohaveacarriagelikethatthesedays?Blackwomencarrytheirbabiesaroundinshawls!’Westillneedastandinglamptomakeourlittlesittingroomcomplete.Buttheoldmancangoaheadandpayforthat…Gertrude’salreadyasbigasahouse.Sixmonths!I’dliketoknowwhetherwe’llbemovedinwhenthetimecomes…Nah—no rugs—whoneeds rugs?Besides, how’dyougetone exceptbyheistingit?Myotherbrother-in-lawcantakecareofthat,he’sapainter.Likestocallhimselfaninteriordecorator.AsIalwayssay,‘Ifonly thehouseisstillstanding!’They’vehadeightraidsinoneweek!”“Well,onemorepatrolandthenofftothetrainingcourse,”someonesaysina

comfortingtone.Thebosun.“Wecanpaintthetablewhiteandmakealittleboxaroundthegasmeter.”“Themenatthedockcouldmakethatforyou.Youcouldtakealittleboxlike

thatawaywithoutanytrouble.Afterall,it’snotthebiggestthingintheworld.”Thatmustbethenavigator.“IfIwereyouI’dhavethemmakethebabycarriageatthesametime—after

all,they’reequippedforthatsortofthing,”thebosunteaseshim.

“Thanksforthetip.IfIneedabulletproofone,I’llrememberit.”He’smanagedtohavethelastword,buthedoesn’tstopthere.“Allthatfuss

abouthoardingprovisions.Whynotgiveeveryoneacoupleofcans?Gertrudecouldmakegooduseofthem.”

Nextmorningaroundnineo’clockwecomeonanexpanseofwreckage.Oneof our boatsmust have scored a hit on a convoy.Our bowwave parts plankssmearedblackwithoil.Arubberdinghybobsup.There’samaninit.Helooksasifhe’ssittinginarockingchair,hisfeetdanglingoverthebulgeoftheside,almost touching the water. His forearms are raised as if trying to read anewspaper.I’msurprisedhowshorttheyare.ThenwedrawnearerandIrealizethatbothhishandsaregone.Theblackenedstumpsarestretchedtowardus.Hisfaceisaburned-outmaskwithtwogleamingrowsofteeth.Foramoment,theillusionofablackstockingpulledoverhishead.“Dead!”saysthenavigator.Hecouldhavesavedhisbreath.The dinghy and its corpse slide rapidly past, rocking violently in our stern

wave.The“reader”seemstoenjoybeingcradledinthiscomfortableposition.Noone ventures aword. Finally the navigator says, “But hewas acivilian

sailor.Ijustcan’tworkoutwherehegotthedinghy.Theyusuallyhaveraftsonfreighters.Thedinghy—that’sveryfunny.LookedexactlyliketheNavy.”Atechnicalobservationatthisjuncturedoesusgood.TheOldManisgladto

pursuethesubject.Thetwoofthemspendquiteawhilediscussingwhetherornotsteamershavebeencarryingnavalpersonnelforsometime.“Otherwisewhowouldmantheguns?”There’snoendtotheflotsam.Thesunkensteamerhaslaidabroadswatchof

wreckageinthewater:blackfueloil,crates,splinteredlifeboats,charredremainsof rafts, life preservers, complete superstructures. In between, three or fourdrownedmenhangingfromtheirlifejacketswiththeirheadsunderwater.Andthere are more: a whole field of floating corpses, most of them without lifejackets,facessubmerged,manymutilated.The navigator took too long to spot the dead men among the wreckage.

There’snotimeforustoalterourcourse.

TheOldMan’svoicegoescoldandheordershigherspeed.Weshearthroughthe scattered, torn remnants, bow throwing everything aside like a snowplow.TheOldManstaresstraightahead.Thenavigatorsurveyshissector.Iseethestarboardlookoutswallowasacorpseslipspast,drapedheaddown

overawhite-stripedtimber.Wonderhowhegotit.“There’sa lifepreserver!”saystheOldMan,andhisvoicegrates,suddenly

rusty.Inquicksuccessionhegivestwoorthreeordersforenginesandrudder,and

our boat swings slowly toward the red andwhite life preserver,which is onlymomentarilyvisibleamongthewaves.TheCommanderturnstothenavigatorandsays,muchtooloudly,“I’lltakeit

ontheportside.Move—NumberOne!”Ikeepmyeyesfixedonthedancinglifepreserver.Itquicklyloomslarger.Thebosunreportsbreathlesslyonthebridge,thenclimbsdowntheironsteps

onthetower.He’scarryingasmallgrapplinghook.Although we’ve known all along what the OldMan has inmind, he says,

“Justwanttoseewhatthescowwascalled.”Thenavigator’supashighashecango,hangingfaroutsoas tobeable to

keep the entire boat in view for maneuvering. “Port engine slow ahead!Starboardenginefullspeedahead!Rudderhardaport!”The helmsman in the tower acknowledges the orders. The life preserver

disappears from time to time in the troughs of thewaves.We have to keep asharplookoutsoasnottolosetrackofit.Thenavigatorhas theportenginestoppedand thestarboard runslowspeed

ahead. Once again I’m aware that all the boat’s otherwise famousmaneuverabilitydoesn’tamounttomuchinahighsea.Givenitslength,it’ssonarrowthatthepropellersarefartooclosetogether.Nowwhere’sthelifepreserver?What’sbecomeofthedamnedthing?Itought

tobealmostdeadonourportbeam…thankgod,thereitis.“Portfifteenpoints,steeronehundreddegrees—bothenginesslowahead!”Slowlytheboathomesinonthelifepreserver.Thenavigatorbringsthehelm

aroundandsetsadirectcourse.Seemstobeworkingright.

Thebosunholdsthegrapplingironinonehandandthelinecoiledlikealassoin theother.Advancingcautiously, hangingonto thenetguard for support, hemovesover theslipperygratings toward thebow.The lifepreserver isalreadylevelwithus.Damn:thelettersseemtobeontheotherside.Orhavetheybeenwashedoff?Slowlyitcomeswithintenfeetoftheboat.Couldhardlybebetter.Thebosun

takesaimandthrowshisiron.Tooneside!Igroanaloud,asifI’dbeentheoneto be hit. Before he’s reeled the iron in again, the life preserver has alreadydriftedfarastern.“Bothenginesstop!”Damnation,whatnow?Theboatstillhasalotofheadway.Wecan’tjustput

onthebrakes!Thebosunhasruntothesternandnowhemakesacastfromtheafterdeck,

butthistimehejerksonthelinetoosoon.Theironsplashesintothewatertwofeetthissideofthelifepreserver,andhelooksupdespairingly.“Another approach, if you please,” the Commander says frostily. The boat

describesagreatcircle,whileIconcentrateonkeepingthelifepreserverinrangeofmyglasses.This time the navigator goes so close that the bosun could have caught the

thingwithhishandifhe’dstretchedhimselfoutontheupperdeck.Buthestillreliesonthegrapplingironandthistimemakesahit.“GulfStream!”heshoutstothebridge.

In theOfficers’Mess theOldMan says, “I hope our activities don’tmakedifficultiesforanyone.”TheChief looks up questioningly. So does theFirstWatchOfficer.But the

OldMan takes his time. Finally he reveals haltinglywhat’s going through hishead.“Assumingourcolleaguesdidn’tfindoutthenameoftheshiptheysankandthengreatlyoverestimateditintheirsuccessreport—andassumingthey’vereported a fifteen thousand tonner—now we report that we’ve found thewreckageofthesteamerGulfStream—anditturnsoutthatshe’sintheregisteratonlytenthousandtons—”

TheCommanderpausestoseewhetherwe’reallwithhimandsays,“Couldbeembarrassing,reallyembarrassing,don’tyouthink?”I examine the linoleum tabletop and silently wonder what we’re gabbing

about.Whetheracommandercanmakeafoolofhimselfornot?Firstagrislypaperchaseandnowtheseguessinggames.TheCommanderhasleanedback.Ilookuptoseehimstrokinghisbeardwith

thebackofhisrighthand.Atthesametimethere’sanervoustwitchinhisface.Of course—it’s an act: he’s playing hard-nosed to inoculate us with his ownfirmness.He feels it all verykeenly.Heoveracts, entertainshis audiencewithobservations and conjectures—just to keep us free from haunting scenes ofnightmareandhorror.But thedead seamanwon’t leavemealone.Heblots outmyvisionsof the

devastationaroundhim.HewasthefirstdeadforeignseamanIhadseen.Fromadistancehe lookedas thoughhe’dmadehimselfcomfortableandwouldgoonhappily paddling away, his head tilted slightly backward, the better to see thesky.Theburned-offhands—otherpeoplemusthave liftedhiminto thedinghy.Hecouldn’thavemanageditwithouthands.Atotalmystery.Nosurvivorstobeseen.Theymusthavebeenpickedupbyasweeper.Ina

convoypeoplewholosetheirshipstillhaveachance.Buttheothers?Thoseonlonevessels?TheCommanderisatthecharttableagain,calculating.Beforelongheorders

bothenginesfullspeedahead.Hegets tohis feet, straightensupandsquareshisshoulders,shakeshimself

thoroughly,clearshisthroatforagoodminute,andtestshisvoicebeforeutteringasingleword.“Ifwe’renotsquareonthecourseoftheconvoyI’lleatmyhat.Probably missed a whole batch of radio reports while we were submerged,dammit.Let’shopethecontactboatcallsinagain—oranyoneelsewhohasthescentnow.”Andthensuddenly,“Adepthchargeisthemostinaccurateweaponthereis!,,TheChiefstaresathim.TheOldMannodswitha traceofself-satisfaction.

Everyone in the control room has heard. He’s just got around to drawing themoralofthecorvetteattack:Youdon’tscorehitswithdepthcharges.Afterall,we’retheproof—thelivingproof—ofthat.

Bertoldisrepeatedlyrequestedtoreporthisposition.WewaitjustasintentlyasthepeopleinKernévelforhisanswer.“Hm,”saystheOldManandgnawsatafewhairsinhisbeard.Thenagain,

“Hm.”

VISTORM

Friday. Forty-second Day at Sea. The nor’wester is blowing harder. Thenavigatorhasanexplanation.“Apparentlywe’resouthofa familyofcyclonesthat’sbeingdrawntowardEuropebywayofGreenland.”“FunnycustomstheseCyclopsandtheirfamilieshave,”Isay.“Whatdoyoumean—Cyclops?”“TheCyclopsisaone-eyedwind.”Thenavigatorfavorsmewithanopenlysuspiciousglance.It’sprobablyhigh

timeformetostickmyheadoutintothefreshairagain.Thesea isnowadarkblue-green. I try todefine its shade.Arborvitae?No,

ratherbluerthanarborvitae.Onyx?Yes,onyxiscloser.In the distance the sea appears almost black under a mass of low-hanging

cloud. Scattered about the horizon a few single clouds, dark gray-blue andbloated.Halfwaytothezenithanddirectlyaheadofushangsanotherthatlooksmoresolid.Oneitherside,arranged inorderly rows,dirtywispsofgray—likelarge weaver’s shuttles. And—directly above—wind-torn cirrus hardlydistinguishablefromtheirbackground;reallynotcloudsatallbutjustcarelesslyslapped-onwhitewash.Theonlyviolentmovementintheskyisintheeast,wherenewcloudswellup

over the rim of the sea, growing visibly plumper until they finally freethemselvesfromthehorizonlikeballoonswithsufficientgastofloatup.Iwatchthemtakeoverthesky.Fromthedark,massedarmyclosetothehorizoninthewestthefirstscoutssetout,littlegroupsofcloudsthatgraduallyfeeltheirwayforward to the zenith. Only when they have established an outpost does thewholeblackhordemoveup. It rises,slowlypushedsidewaysby thewind,butalreadytherearenewcloudsunderneath,thrustingtheirraggededgesabovethehorizon—forced upward out of some apparently inexhaustible reservoir. Rankuponrankofthem.

Seaman Bockstiegel, nineteen, comes to Herrmann, who doubles as themedicalorderly,withanitchinginflammationofthearmpits.“Crabs!Downwithyourpants!”saysHerrmann.Thensuddenlyheexplodes.“Areyoucompletelynuts?There’sawholelousy

armyrunningaroundhere.They’llfinishoffamouthfullikeyouinnotime!”The orderly reports to the FirstWatchOfficer,who orders an inspection at

19.00forthoseoff-duty,andforthecurrentwatchanhourandahalflater.The Commander, who was asleep, finds out about it an hour later in the

Officers’Mess.He’slikeabullstoppedinhistracksbythecapeasheglowersupattheFirstWatchOfficer.Thenhestrikeshisforeheadwiththeflatofhislefthand,fightingtocontrolhisanger.Wordgets around in thebowcompartment. “Knocksyou sideways, doesn’t

it?”—“Nastybusiness.”—“Thisontopofeverythingelse.”—“Whatanerve!”Nowweseemtohaveship’scrabliceaswellasaship’sfly.We’llsoonbea

kindofNoah’sarkforthelowerordersofanimal.Fivemenon theoff-dutywatchare found tohavecrabs.Soon the sweetish

smellofpetroleumspreadsthroughtheboat.Exterminationisinprogress.

Thewindcomes roaringatus likecompressedair throughanarrownozzle.Sometimes it ceases for a moment while the bellows are replenished, thensuddenlyitletslooseagainwithincreasedfury.Witheachmomentthatpassesthewatersurgestofiercerheightsinthegripof

thegusts.Streaksoffoamflickeroutineverydirectionlikecracksappearingindark glass. The waves look more and more sinister—a seething, swirlingcauldron.Againandagainthespraysweepshissingoverourbowsandspurtsupthrough the gratings.Thewind sweeps through the showers, to sendwhiplashafterwhiplashofwatersmackingagainstthefacesoftheforwardlookouts.Humidityinthecontrolroomgetsworse.Bitbybit,everythingiscoatedwith

afilmofdamp.Theladderiswetandcoldtothetouch.Withoutoilskinsandsou’westerIcannolongerremainonthebridge.Once

below, the first thing I look at is the barograph. Its needle has described adescendingstaircase.Itlookslikethecrosssectionofacascade.Thebad-weatherlineisfallingsosteadilythatit’llsoonreachthebottomofthepaper.

Thebarograph is a fascinating instrument.Theweather seems to takeup ,apenandwrite its autobiographyonadrum that slowly revolveson itsverticalaxis.Thisline,however,isbrokenatregularintervalsbysharplyrisingpeaks.SinceIcanmakenosenseoutof thesespikesIaskthenavigatorwhat they

mean.“They’retherecordofourdailypracticedives—thebarographreactsnotonly

to variations in the pressure outside but also—naturally enough—to variationsinsidetheboat.Thespikesmeanexcesspressure.”

The weather is obviously worrying the Commander. “Lows of this sortsometimes move at one to two hundred miles an hour, which means severedisturbances and oscillations between subtropical and polar air,” he explains.“Theycreateviolentturbulence—thewindcangocompletelycrazy.”“You’reinforatreat,”theChiefsaystauntingly,grinningatme.TheOldMan

bendsoverthechart,thenavigatorpeeringoverhisshoulder.“TheseNorthAtlanticstormfrontsarenojoke.There’llbecoldairbehindthe

retreatinglow.It’llprobablybringsquallsand,withanyluck,bettervisibility.Ofcoursewecouldgo farthernorth,but thenwe’dgetdeeper into theeyeof thesquall. And dodging south is unfortunately out on tactical grounds. Well,Kriechbaum; only one thing to do—praise the Lord and go slap through themiddle.Toobadwe’vegottheseadeadonourportbeam.”“It’sgoingtobearealrodeo,”saysthenavigatorhollowly.A few of the off-duty seamen are busy using light lines to lash down the

provision chests. Otherwise there isn’t much to do: none of the stormpreparationsyougetonasurfacevessel.TheOldMancanbecomfortable,hisbighandsrestingidlyonhisthighs.Atlunchwehavetoputuptheplaterails;evenso,wespendourtimetrying

tokeepthesoupfromsloppingover.AllatoncetheChiefsayscasuallytotheSecondEngineer,“What’swithyour

eyelashesandeyebrows?Yououghttoshowthattothedoc.”AfterthetwoWatchOfficersandtheSecondEngineerhavedeparted,hesays

—justascasually—“Crablice.”“What—how’sthatagain?”snapstheOldMan.

“What the Second Engineer’s got in his eyebrows and the roots of hiseyelashes.”“You’rejoking.”“Seriously.Whentheystartbreedingthere,thingshavegoneprettyfar.”The OldMan inhales violently through his nose and stares at the Chief—

disconcerted,foreheadawashboardofwrinkles,mouthhalfopen.“With all due respect to the range of your knowledge, is that supposed to

meanyoursuccessoris…?”“Tsch—perhapsoneoughtn’ttoassumetheworststraightoff!”ThereisacynicalgrinontheChief’sface.TheCommandershakeshishead

asif totesthisvertebrae.Finallyhesays,“TheSecondEngineerhasjustgoneupinmyestimation.I’mcurioustoseewhathe’lldonext.”Nowit’stheChief’sturntogapeinastonishment.

Theboatgraduallygoesquiet.Youcanhearthehummingoftheventilators.Onlywhenthedoortothebowcompartmentopensforafewinstantsdowehearsnatchesofsongandthegabbleofvoices.Igetupandmakemywayforward.“Greatruckusinthecablelocker,”saysthenavigatorwithanapprovingnod

as I pass through the Quarters. The bow compartment is even murkier thanusual.“What’sgoingonhere?”“Jubilation and riot!” a chorus of voices shouts back at me. The men off-

watcharesquattingclosetogethertailor-fashiononthefloorplates.ItlookslikeanimpromptuversionoftherobberscenefromCarmen,withamazinglytatteredcostumesimprovisedoutofoil-smeareddrilljacketsandstreakedsweatersthatthey’vedugoutofsomerummageheap.Theboatsuddenlyheelssharply.Leatherjacketsandoilskinsswingoutfrom

thewall.Wehavetoholdfasttothebunkropes.Sharpcursesfromthedepthsofthecompartment.Ipeerintothedarknessbetweentheheadsandthehammocks.Someoneisdancingaboutnaked.“Thebridgejohnny!He’skeepinghispreciousbodyfit,”istheexplanationI

getfromLittleBenjamin.“Doesitallthetime.He’smadabouthimself.”

Mournfulsingingcomesfromtheforwardbunksandoneof thehammocks.LittleBenjamingetshisharmonicaout,ceremoniouslyemptiesitbytappingitinhis palm, slides it back and forth a couple of times across his tightened lips,holdingitinthehollowofhishand,andfinallystrikesupamelodytowhichheaddsalighttremolo,withsoft,quicktapsofhisfreehand.Hagenhumsintune.Oneafteranothertheseamenjoinin.Bockstiegelleadsthechorus.

ShetookthetraintoHamburgHermoodwasblackasblack.AtFlensburgJunctionoutshegotAndlayuponthetrack.Theengineer,hespiedthegirlAndtookthebrakeinhand.Alas,thetrainspedblithelyon.Aheadrollsinthesand.

“Hellanddamnation,it’stento,already!”Facklerannouncessuddenly.“Whatalife.Younosoonersitdownthanyouhavetogetupagain.Shit!”Cursing,heleavesthegroup.Schwallegetsuptoo,methodicallytighteninghisbelt,anddisappearsthrough

thedoor,saying,“Offtowork!”“Giveitmylove!”Bockstiegelshoutsafterhim.

TheChiefisstillsittingintheOfficers’Mess.Helooksatmeexpectantlyandasks,“Whatdoestheglazierdowhenhe’sgotnoglass?”Mylookofbewildermentdoesmenogood.Nomercytobehad.“Hedrinksoutofthebottle.”WearilyIignorethejoke.Fromthecontrolroomthesoundofwatergushingthroughthehatchislikea

cloudburst.Occasionallyagiganticfistrisesandstrikesthehull.Therumbleissolouditmakesmejump.TheCommandergrins.“Justtheseaelephantstryingtorubtheirspawnoffontheboat!”Moredullrumbling.TheChiefgetsup,braceshimselfcarefully,liftsoneof

thefloorplates,andmotionsmetowardhim.“Theregoesoneofthemnow!”

Istickmyheadthroughtheholeandinthelightofaflashlightseeasmallcarsuspendedfromtworails.There’samanlyingonitalltwistedup.“He’stestingtheacidconcentrationinthebatteries.”“Nicejobinthiskindofsea!”“Youcansaythatagain.”IreachforabookbutsoondiscoverthatI’mmuchtoowearyandbruisedto

concentrate.Theonlythingnowwouldbetotieoneon—goonarealbender—putmyself an entireworld away from thiswretched sense of suffocation andliving death. Beck’s beer—Pilsner Urquell, good Münchner Lowenbrau—Martell—Hennessy,thefinethree-starstuff!Suddenly I notice that the Chief is looking intently at me. He jeers.

“Abstracted—that’stheword.Ourabstractedship’spoet!”At this I whirl around, bare my teeth, and snarl like a wild animal. This

pleasestheChief.Hekeepsongrinningforquiteawhile.

Saturday. I’monmorningwatchwith thenavigator.Thewindhaswhippedthe groundswell into foaming crests and swift green valleys.Highmat ridges,theirsidesdulllikeslabsofslate.Luckilywenolongerhavetheseaabeambutdirectly head on. Who knows what circumstance we have to thank for thisovernightchangeofcourse.Wemightaswellbestandingstill,asthemountainsofwaterbeatdownonus

inclosedranks,oneaftertheother.Abouthalfwaythroughthewatchawallappearsdirectlyaheadofus,looking

likegray-blackplaster.Itreachesfromthehorizonrightintothesky.Graduallyitstirs into life. Arms grow out of it and slowly extend over half the visibleheavens,untiltheyextinguishthelastpaleradianceofthesun.Theairbecomesheavierandheavierwithbrutepressure.Thehissandroarofthewavessoundsallthelouderbecausethereisasuddenlullinthehowlingofthewind.Andnowthestormisuponus.Itadvancesinasuddenassault,racingtoward

usoutofthewallahead,rippingawaythegreenishwhiteskinfromthewavesasitcomes.The air is a slab of unbroken mouse-gray. Only the occasional dark fleck

betraysthefactthatthewholeskyisinwildflight.

From time to time, individual waves rise above the rest, but the stormchallenges them instantlywith searingblasts, andwhips thehigh-tossedwaterbackward.Thepipingofthenetguardcablegrowssteadilyshriller.The storm tries out all its possible voices, and at every possible strength:

shrieking,yowling,groaning.Wheneverthebowplungesdownwardandthenetguardgoesunderwater,thewhiningceasesmomentarily.Butassoonasthebowsprings clear of themottled greenwhirlpool, it resounds again.The banner ofwater hanging from the net guard is ripped and torn to rags by thewind—insecondsit’sgone.Ibracemybackagainst theperiscopehousingand inchmywayupward to

look over the bulwark of the bridge at the whole length of the foreship.Screaming blasts of wind instantly strikemy head. This is no longer air—novolatileelement—butasolid, tangiblemass that forces itselfbetweenmyjawswheneverIopenmymouth.The storm! I want to roar aloud with delight. I screw up my eyes in

concentration,takingmentalsnapshotsoftheactionofthewaves,instanthomemoviesoftheoriginoftheworld.Theflyingsprayforcesmeintotheprotectionofthebulwark.Myeyelidsare

swollen.Myseaboots fullofwater.Poorlydesigned:Thewater forces itswayinto them from the top.The gloves are no good either.Theywere completelysoaked through, so I handed them down some time ago. The knuckles ofmyhandsaredeadwhite—washerwoman’shands.Weareenvelopedinsheetsoffoam,andIdon’tdarestraightenupforminutes

atatime.Thesemetal bathtubs, open at the back, intowhichwe duck like defensive

boxers,don’tdeservethenamebridges.Theyhavenothingincommonwiththebridgesofordinaryships,whichextendacrossthewholesuperstructureandareproperlyglassed in,dryandwarm:a sureprotection fromwhichonecan lookdownonastormyseafromaheightofthirty,forty,fiftyfeet—asonemightfromtheupperstoryofahouse.Thosebridgeshaverapidlyrotatingglassdisksthatretainnotadropofwater.Our bridge, on the contrary, is nothing more than a big shield, a sort of

breastplate.Thewinddeflectors that arebuilt in around theupper edgeof thebulwark are intended toprotect us by turning thehorizontal forceof thewind

intoanupwardcurrent, thus formingakindofwallof air, but a stormof thisstrength nullifies any effectiveness theymay have. And toward the stern, thebridge offers no protectionwhatever; our position is entirely exposed and thewaterfloodsincontinuously.Ispendmostofthewatchstandinginswirlingwaterthatrisesaroundmelike

a tearing, sucking, raging river. Barely has one whirlpool rushed out asternthroughthewatergateswhentheSecondWatchOfficershouts,“Holdfast!”andthenextsurgehurlsitselfontothebridge.Idodgearoundthisboxingring,chinpressed down againstmy chest.But thewater has feints of its own. It strikesblowstothefacefrombelow,realdrivinguppercuts.SoIwon’tbesweptoffmyfeet,IwedgemyselfbetweentheTBTpostand

thewallofthebridge.Braceyourselftight,breathedeep,makeyourselfheavy!Youcan’tjustrelyonthesafetybelts,howeversturdyandsolidtheymaylook.Still dazed, I have barely raisedmy head to take a quick glance round the

sectorwhen theSecondWatchOfficers shouts, “Lookout!”andanotherwaveroarsin.Headdownagain.Anothercrackacrossthebackfollowedbyasecondblowfromunderneath.Myhandscramp inadesperateholduntil theknucklesstandoutinridges.Isnatchaquickglanceastern:Throughthebarsoftherailingandpast themountingoftheanti-aircraftguntheaftershipisinvisible—buriedunderathickblanketofseethingfoam.Thegasexhaustflapshavedisappeared,smotheredbythewhirlpool,ashavetheairintakevalves;thedieselsmustnowbedrawingtheirairfromtheinsideoftheboat.Withinsecondsanotherwavecrashesdullyagainstthetowerandshootshigh

in the air like a breakermeeting a cliff. Two tearing, blindingwalls of sprayconvergeover theaftership,collide,andshoot roaringupward.Then thewaterrusheswhirlingandgurglingovertheaftershipandtheboat’shullforcesitswayup again through its smothering burden of foam to shake off every remainingrivulet of water. For a few moments the whole upper deck is free. Then theboilingwaves strike again,punching the aftershipdown.Fight free anddodgeaway,duckdownandupagain,inaneverendingsequence.IcannolongerfeelathingasIclimbdown,soaked.Groaning,Ipeeloffmy

rubberjacket.Besidemethebridgejohnnyiscursing.“Whoeverdesignedthesetogsmusthavebeenarealasshole.”Hecontinuestogripeashepeelsthewetclothesfromhisbody.“Complain toHeadquarters,” Isenbergneedleshim.“TheC-in-C’sdelighted

tohavesuggesionsfromthefightingforces;youcanbetyourlifeonthat.”

“Fairlyrough,”istheOldMan’scommentonthesea.He’ssittingatthetableleafing through his blue and green notebooks. I want to tell him that theadjective“rough,”formeatleast,mayservetodescribesandpaperbutnotthiswaterbound insanity—but what’s the point? The Old Man seems to have nostrongerwordtodescribeit.He reads aloud in a grumble. “Unobserved by the enemy, the U-boat can

infiltrateanyareaoftheseainwhichitwishestobeofmilitaryservice.Thusitisthemostsuitablemine-layerforuseindirectactionagainstenemycoasts,themouths of enemy harbors, and estuaries. Here, at the focus point of enemycommerce, the Uboat’s limited load factor is also less of a disadvantage.Likewise,thislimitednumberofminesoffersoptimalchancesofsuccess.”Helooksup,staringmestraightintheface.“Wishestobeofservice—mines

offeroptimalchances!Well,that’sstyleforyou,eh?”Soonhefindsanotherpassagethatprovokeshimtoreadaloud.“TheU-boat

manloveshisfightingunit.ItproveditsdaringspiritintheFirstWorldWar,andtothisdaytheU-boatCommandpreservesthissamedeterminationanddaringtothebestofitsability.”“Pretty,isn’tit?”“I’llsay!”saystheOldManandsnorts.“TheC-in-C’sveryownwork.”Abit laterheshakeshisheadandreadssomethingaloudfromanewspaper.

“Helios surprise tip to win the Cup.” He closes his eyes for a moment, thenmutters,“Andpeoplethinkthey’vegottroubles.”Howfarawayitallseems!Irealize thatwehardlyever thinkof themainland.Rarelydoesanyone talk

abouthome.SometimesI feelwe’vebeenonpatrol foryears. If itweren’t forthe radio news, we could imagine we were voyaging the globe as the lastspecimensofHomosapiensinexistence.Iplaywith thenotion thatHighCommandmightforgetusaltogether.What

would happen then?How far couldwe get, using all our reserves?Under ourfeet of coursewe have the ship that’s known to have themaximumoperatingrange.Butwhataboutprovisions?Ourtwilightworldcouldcertainlyfunctionasamushroomfarm.Theclimatehereonboardisideal—themoldonourbreadisproof of that. Or watercress. You’re supposed to be able to grow watercress

underelectriclights.Thebosuncouldcertainlyfindaplaceforit,justundertheceilinginthegangway,forexample.Watercressgardensoverhead,suspendedongimbals.Finally,wecouldcatchalgae.AlgaehaveahighvitaminCcontent.Perhaps

there’sevenaspeciesthatwouldflourishinthebilge,usingthegreaseasakindoffertilizer.

Sunday. “Thereought tobecrisp fresh rollson the table,” theChief saysatbreakfasttime.“Smotheredinsaltedbutter,meltingalittlebecausetherollsarestillwarminside—straightfromthebaker!Andacupofhotcocoa,notsweet—thebitterkind—buthot.Thatwouldhitthespot.”The Chief raises his eyes ecstatically and dramatically fans the imaginary

fragrancetowardhisnose.“You’dmakeitinburlesque,”saystheOldMan.“Nowshowusabreakfastof

powderedscrambledeggs,complimentsoftheNavy.”Oncue,theChiefgagsandgulps,makinghisAdam’sapplebobviolentlyup

anddown;hiseyesarebulging,fixedrigidlyonaspotbeforehimonthetable.TheOldManissatisfied.But theFirstWatchOfficer,whoseexpressionless

demonstrations of zeal extend even to mealtimes, where he methodicallyconsumeseverylastscrapoftherationsassignedtohim,findsthismorethanhecanbear.Hecastsapainedexpressionaroundthetable.“Clearaway!”theCommandershoutsintothecontrolroom,andthesteward

appearswithhissmellyrag.TheFirstWatchOfficerturnsuphisnoseindisgust.AfterbreakfastItakemyselfoffagaintothepettyofficers’quarters.Iwantto

catchuponalittlesleep.“We’restillgoingtogetknockedaroundabit”isthelastthingIhearfromtheOldManinthecontrolroom.

HoweverhardItry,whatevernewpositionIexperimentwith,Icannotwedgemybodyintothebunksoasnottoberolledandtossedaround.Icouldgetusedtotherollingifonlyithadsomerhythmtoit.Butthehardjoltswhenthebowfallsoraheavywavestrikestheforeshipdrivemetodesperation.Andtherearesinister new sounds.Roaring blows against the tower that carry an unfamiliar

accompaniment,aceaselessrasping,whirring,scraping,scratching,and—wholeoctaves higher—a threatening, rhythmless drumming, plus a nerve-destroyingseries of yowlings, screeches, and whistles. Not a minute passes without aviolentshudderingrunningthelengthofthepressurehullornoisespiercingyoutotheverybone.Againstthisunendingmisery,andtheorgyofsound,theonlydefenseisdullresignation.Thehellofit isthatthedindoesn’tstopatnight;astheboatfallsquiet, the

uproarof thewavesseemstoincrease.Attimesitsoundsasifwaterfallswereplummeting into themoltencontentsof ablast furnace. I lie awakeand try todifferentiate the sounds that make up the clamor outside: in addition to theraspingandhissing there is lapping,smacking,andchiseling.Then themightycrashingblowsbeginagain,making theboat resoundcontinuously likeagiantdrum.DavyJones!Ithink—muffleddrumanddrunkengong.Thestormmustbesweepingalongnowatagoodsixty-fivemilesanhour.As the bow makes its crashing curtsy, the compartment drops forward,

slanting, steeper and steeper.Our clothes standout from thewall at forty-fivedegrees.Mycurtainshootsopenofitself,mylegsrisehelplesslyintotheair.Myhead is thrustdown—and the roomgoesaround inacircleas theboat tries tofree itself sideways. It doesn’t want to stand on its head. From astern ourpropellerssoundasifthey’vespunthemselvesintoacocoonofcottonwool.Theboatshiversfeverishly,someironpartrattlesviolentlyagainstsomeotherone:arollingofdrums.Frenssenfavorsmewithaboredlook,thenrollshiseyes.“Bumpy,isn’tit?”“Yes,youmightsayso.”Finallythepropellersracefreeagain.Thecompartmentreturnstohorizontal.

Our clothes resume thevertical against thewalls.And then I shutmycurtain.Whybother?theboat’sonitswayintothenextwavealready.

Monday. I haven’t been on the bridge for some while. It’s time for me toclamberupagainandairmyselfout.Butwhat’s thepoint?Face lashedby thewaves,blowsfromacat-o’-nine-tails,bodysoakedtotheskin,limbsfrozenstiff,achingbones,smartingeyes.Theseare,afterall,validobjections.Whynotstayput?It’sstillthebestplace,

hereintheOfficers’Mess—dry.

Abookhasfallenfromthetable.Imusthavenoticeditfall,butit’sonlyafteritlandsonthefloorthatIseeitforthefirsttime.Theremustbeadelaybetweenactualvisionandperception.Ournervesareoverstretchedlikeusedelastic.Ifeeladefiniteurgetopickthethingup:itcan’tjustliethere!ButIignorethisinnervoice. I shutmy ears, let the last ounce of initiative seep away.After all, thebook’snotdoinganyoneanyharmdownthere.TheChiefcomesinfromhisengines,seesthebook,bendsdownandpicksit

up.Sothat’sthat!Hebraceshimselfinhisbunkwithhiskneesdrawnupandgetsanewspaper

outfromunderhisbolster,allwithoutsayingaword.Hejustsitstheresullenly,smellingofoil.Afteraquarterofanhourtheensignappearsandasksfornewcartridgesfor

therecognitionsignal.TheChief’sreactionsareslippingtoo:hedoesn’theartheensign,whohastorepeathisrequestinaloudervoice.FinallytheChieflooksupangrily.ObservinghimsidewaysIcanseehismindslowlytryingtotickover.He’sstrugglingtomakeadecision.Therecognitioncartridgesare,ofcourse,aserious matter. And they’re in the locker behind his back. Heaven knowswhether we’ll ever use them, but their daily change is part of the sacrosanctroutine.Finally he gets up and opens the locker with an expression of the most

extremerepugnance.You’dthinksomeonewasholdingshitunderhisnose.Hisnewspaperslipsdownoffthebunkandlandsinapuddlenodoubtleftoverfromthelastmeal.Hesuppressesacurseandcrouchesbackinhiscorner.Thistimehedrawshiskneesupevenhigher.Heseemstobetryingtotakecover.Crouchingburial,Ithink;theChiefisre-enactingacrouchingburial.Iwantto

communicatemyidea,butI’mtoolazyeventospeak.Barelyfiveminutespassandtheensignisbackagain.Perfectlyclear:theold

cartridges have to be locked away. There can be no careless handling ofrecognition cartridges : they can’t be left lying around. I expect the Chief toexplodelikeabomb.Buthedoesn’tutteraword.Heevengetsupwithacertainalacrity,shootsadisgustedlookatme,clampshisnewspaperunderhisarm,anddisappearsaft.Twohours later I findhimin theE-motor room.He’ssitting inthegeneralreekoffumes,onanup-endedchestofprunes,withhisbackagainstthesterntorpedotube,stillperusinghisnewspaper.AftertheeveningmealmyinnervoiceremindsmethatIhaven’tbeenonthe

bridgeallday.Isilenceitbyarguingthatit’salmostdarkuptherebynow.

Idoneedachange,however,soIgoofftothebowcompartment,whereI’mhit by a solid stench of bilge, remnants of food, sweatdrenched clothes, androtting lemons. Two weak lightbulbs give the place the dim glow of awhorehouse.I can make out Schwalle holding a big aluminum pot between his knees.

There’s a dipper sticking out of it. Around him is a confusion of bread andsausage and pickles and open sardine cans, and overhead two low-sagginghammocks weighted down by the bodies of the sleeping off-watch men. Theupperberthstoleftandrightarealsooccupied.The motion of the boat is worst here in the bow. Every few minutes the

compartment begins to roll and swayviolently and each timeSchwalle has toseizethepotsoitwon’tspillover.Dunlop the torpedomancomesoutof thedepthsof thecompartmentonall

fourswithtwolamps,oneredandonegreen,inhishand;hewantstosubstitutethem for the white ones. It takes him a while to accomplish this, but he’s inecstasiesovertheresult.Bengalfestivallights!Hisveryownhandiwork!“Sexy,”saysacomplimentaryvoicefromoneofthehammocks.Ihear theGigolo talking toLittleBenjamin. “Perfectlyclean, isn’t it?How

longwouldyouguessI’vebeenwearingthisshirt?”“Certainlysinceweleftport.”“Wrong!”There’striumphinhisvoice.“Twoweeksbeforethat!”AlongwithSchwalle,Ario,andthetorpedomanDunlop,GigoloBachmann,

Dufte,Fackler,andLittleBenjamin(heoftheMenjoumustache)areallsittingonthefloor.TheCommanderhashad thewatchesshortened.Thismeans thatpeopleare

nowbeingthrowntogetherwhoneverusedtoseeoneanotherduringtheiroff-dutyhours.The boat gives an unexpectedly violent jolt. The aluminum kettle slips out

from between Schwalle’s legs and splashes soup all over the bread. The boatheelsandbeginstocorkscrewmadly.Nexttothedoorawastebuckettipsover,spillingitscontentsofmoldybreadcrustsandsqueezedlemonrindsalloverthefloor.Thebilgewatergurgles.Thebowfallswithacrashand thewholeroomshivers.Thebilgewatershootsforwardroaring.“Dammittohell!”Schwalleshouts.“Apainintheass—damn,shit,fuck!”LittleBenjaminrollscursingacrossthe

floor,pullshimselfuptoasittingposition,andhooksonearmaroundabarofthebunktokeephimselfupright,cross-leggedlikeaBuddha.“Don’ttakeupsomuchroom,”Ariosnapsathim.“JustgivemeaminuteandI’llbreathemyselfflat!”Arioavoidsbeingknockedabouttoobypushinghisleftarmaroundthetaut

lifelinethatrunsalongalowerbunk,thenhecollectstheheavyloavesofbreadthatarecoveredwithgreenmoldandusesabigknifetocutoffmassivepieces.The unspoiled parts are now no larger than plums.His biceps bulge from theeffort.Theboatheelsagain.ButArio’shookedarmhangson.“Likeamonkeyonastick!”Schwalleteaseshim.“Youthinkit’sfunny?”“Take it easynow—I’vegot first-class references frompeoplewho’vebeen

punchedinthefacebyme.Allofthemwerecompletelysatisfied.”Newclatteringandscraping.Forwardbetweenthebasesofthetorpedotubes

abucketisbangingbackandforth.Noonegetsuptomakeitfastagain.Atowelhanging fromoneof thestarboardbunksslowlyunfurisand remains for sometimeextendeddiagonallyintotheroomasifheavilystarched.Ariogivesithisfullattention.“Fiftydegreesataguess.”The towel slowly sinks back into a reasonable position, then is plastered

againsttherailing:theboathasheeledtostarboard.“Shit,fuckingshit,”groansthetorpedoman,whohaswedgedapailbetween

the rails and is trying towash up.His cloth fills thewhole roomwith a sourstench.Thedirtywaterthatwasaquietpuddleafewminutesbeforeiscreepingover the floorplates towhere themenaresitting.Ario isstarting toget tohisfeetwhenthewaterstopsasthoughhypnotizedandslowlyrecedes.Ariowipes thesweat fromhis foreheadwith thebackofhishand,clumsily

standsup,leanscrosswiseonabunk,stillcarefultokeepfirmholdofthebunksupport,andpeelsoffhis jacket.Blackhairsticksout likestuffingfromatornmattress through theholes inhisshirt.Hiswholebody isdrippingwithsweat.Snorting,hesitsdownandtellseveryonethattohellwiththeweather,he’sgoingtofillhisbellysotightwe’llbeabletosquashfleasonitwithourthumbnails.Weseeatoncethathereallymeansit.Usinganotcompletelymoldyremnantofbreadasabase,hecarefullyheapsitwithbutter,sausage,cheese,andsardines.

“TheperfecttowerofBabel!”isthetributefromtheGigolo.Arioknowshisreputationisatstakeandplacidlysmearsathicklayerofmustardontop.Soundsof noisy enjoyment. The hard dry bread gives his jaw muscles a thoroughworkout.“It’sstillbetterthansomejunkoutofacan,”hegrowls.He finally washes the thick mush down with reddish-yellow tea. Grease

shines at the corners of every mouth: cannibals seated around their pot.Everyone’slegsareinterlacedlikethoseinafullrailwaycar.Nowandagainabelch from Ario indicates his satisfaction. A bottle of apple juice goes therounds.Thedoorbangsopen.“Jesus!Lookatthisroom!”thebridgejohnnycomplainsindignantly,shaking

waterfromhisfaceandhands.He’sansweredwitharoaroflaughter.“Saythatagain!”Facklerjeers.“The room!Lookat this room!”TheGigolo imitates thebridge johnnyand

goes on to ask him, “Perhaps something’s not quite satisfactory?”TheGigolocan’tcontainhimself.“Manohman,whatanexpression!‘Thisroom’—almostasgoodas‘Getthebulletsupoutofthecellar.’”“What’sallthisaboutgettingbulletsoutofthecellar?”“That’s the order some imbecile of a watch officer gave during the last

artillerypractice.Hadn’tyouheard?‘Getthebulletsupoutofthecellar,’hesaid,insteadof,‘Passtheshellsupfromthehold’!”Agrinspreadsacross thebridge johnny’s face.He’ssoplump thathe looks

moreliketheboat’scookthanaseaman.Hisfaceisinconstantmotion.Asmallblack beard is its only fixed feature.Hemust be good-natured, for he doesn’tmindthekidding;hesearchesquietlyforaplaceinthecircleandwriggleshiswayforciblyintoanopening.“Don’ttakeupsomuchroom!”Facklersnapsathim.Butthebridgejohnnyonlysmilesathiminafriendlywayanddoesn’tbudge

aninch.Facklerbecomesincensed.“You’rearealpileofblubber!”AtthistheGigolotakesthebridgejohnny’spartandaddresseshiminpastoral

tones.“Nownow,don’tletthenastyboysupsetyou.”

There’s peace for a while. The rattling of the bucket forward between thetorpedotubesandthenoiseofeatingechoallthelouder.Dunlopthetorpedomanstepsintotheredlightofthelampandbusieshimself

athislocker.Amassofbottlescomestolight.Whateverhe’ssearchingformustbeattheveryback.“Whatd’youwant?”Facklerfinallyasksfromhisbunk.“Myfacecream.”Asthoughthisweretheirlong-awaitedcue,thewholecrowdletsgoatonce.

“Look at that gorgeous little bathing beauty!”—“He’ll soon be rubbingointments intohis lovelyalabasterbody!”—“Please,please,you’remakingmehorny!”Thetorpedomanturnsontheminarage.“Youbastards,youdon’tevenknow

there’ssuchathingashygiene.”“Comeon,don’tgetsoexcited!”—“You’rearealadvertisementforshipboard

hygiene!Nodoubtyou’vehadagoodshittoday!”“Justlookathim!Screamingabout hygienewhile his cock stinks likeGorgonzola!”—“Itwould have to beyou that talks about hygiene. That’swhat I like: filthy as awild ass and youspreadthatmessontop.Somehygiene!”Hacker,theseniormaninthebowcompartmentroars,“JesusFuckingChrist,

istheregoingtobepeacehereornot?”“Not,”saysArio,butsolowthatthetorpedomechaniccan’thearhiminhis

bunk.

Tuesday.Thesea’srunningevenhigher.Theboatpancakessosuddenlythataviolent shudder runs through every rivet—and lasts for half a minute. Theforeship’sbeenrammedsodeepintoawavethat itseemsunabletofreeitself,Theboat rolls fromright to left; Icanfeel itstruggling tobreakoutsideways.Finallythebowlifts,thescrewspickupspeed,andwefeellikeaboxerbreakingoutofaclinch.I try to keep my breakfast down and even to do some writing. But the

compartment drops so fast that my stomach heaves.We hold on with all ourstrength because experience teaches that each downward swoop ends with a

sudden jolt. But this time it goes off smoothly. The screws are drivingpowerfullyagain.Themiddaymeal consists of sausage and bread. Hot food has been struck

fromthemenu.There’sonlycoldchowoutofcansbecausethecookcan’tkeephispotsonthestove.It’samarvelthatheevensucceedsinsupplyinguswithhotteaandcoffee.Whenthemealisover,theCommanderwrestleshiswaytothebridge,after

putting on a thick sweater under his oilskins. Instead of a sou’wester he’swearing awaterproof rubber hood that sits tight on his head, leaving only hiseyes,nose,andmouthuncovered.In less than five minutes he’s back, dripping wet and sputtering barely

articulate curses. Sullenly he works his way out of the gleaming wet rubberclothinganddragsthesweateroverhishead;heshowsmeabigdarkpatchthathasformedonhisshirtduringtheshorttimehewasupthere.Heplumpshimselfdownonthechartchest,andacontrol-roommatepullsthebootsfromhislegs.Waterpoursoutofthemandgurglesintothebilge.Whilehe’swringingouthissoddensockslikeamop,there’sagushofwater

splattersdown fromabove andhissesback and forth a few timeson the floorbeforeittoofindsitsexitinthebilge.“Startthepumps!”heorders,hopsbarefootoverthewetfloorplates,climbs

throughthecirculardoor,andhangsuphiswetclothestodryoverthegleamingredheaterinthesoundroom.He communicates his observations to the navigator,who’s pushing hisway

pasthim.“Windveeringtoport.Sofar,allaccordingtoprogram.”Soourstormisbehavingcorrectly,conformingentirelytoexpectations.“Arewetoholdcourse?”thenavigatorasks.“Yes,we’vegotto!Aslongaswecan—andsofarweseemtohavemanaged

it.”Asthoughtocontradicthim,asharpheelingoftheboatsendstheaccordion

caseshootingoutofthesoundroom.Thebigboxsmashesagainsttheoppositewallofthegangway.“Here’shopingitwasempty.”Theboxhurlsitselfagainsttheoppositewall,

breaksopen, anddisgorges the instrument.TheChief thrustshishead into thegangway,examinesthewreckage,halfcurious,halfconcerned,andannounces,“That’snotgoingtodoitanygood.”

Thecontrol-roommatecomescrawlingratherthanrunningandgathersupthefragmentsofthecasetogetherwiththeaccordion.The Commander totters his way through to the Officers’ Mess and settles

himself firmly inhiscornerat thenarrowendof the table.He twists thiswayandthat,shutshiseyesforsecondsatatimeasthoughhavingtorememberhowheusedtoarrangehisbody,andtriesoutvariouspositionsuntilhefindsenoughsupportnottobeliftedoutofhisseatbythenextrolloftheboat.Allthreeofuskeepourheadsbentoverourbooks.Afterawhilehelooksup.

“Justreadthis!It’saperfectdescription!”Ifindtheparagraphhe’spointingto.

"Thecapriceofthewinds,likethewillfulnessofmen,isfraughtwiththedisastrousconsequencesofself-indulgence.Longanger,the senseofuncontrolledpower, spoils the frankandgenerousnatureoftheWestWind.Itisasifhisheartwerecorruptedbyamalevolentandbroodingrancor.Hedevastateshisownkingdomin thewantonness of his force. Southwest is the quarter of theheavenswherehepresentshisdarkenedbrow.Hebreatheshisrage in terrific squalls and overwhelms his realm with aninexhaustible welter of clouds. He strews the seeds of anxietyuponthedecksofscuddingships,makesthefoam-stripedoceanlookold,andsprinkleswithgreyhairstheheadsofship-mastersin the homewardbound ships running for the Channel. TheWesterlyWind asserting his sway from the south-west is oftenlikeamonarchgonemad,driving forthwithwild imprecationsthe most faithful of his courtiers to shipwreck, disaster, anddeath."

Iturntothetitlepage:JosephConrad.TheMirroroftheSea.

Wednesday. “One good thing about this filthyweather,” says theOldMan.“Atleastwedon’thaveenemyflyersonournecks.”Hardlyanysleepduringthenight.Mybunktriestotossmeoutinspiteofthe

railing—orrollmeuptheplywoodwall.TwiceIclimboutbecauseIcan’tstand

itupthereanylonger.NowIfeelasifIhadn’tsleptforaweek.The storm shows not the slightest sign of letting up. The day passes in

exhausteddozing.Thewholecrew is letting itself sink furtherandfurther intoapathy.

Thursday.TheCommanderhimselfreadsthefinalwordsoftheentrythathehas written in the war log. “Wind south-southwest, 9 to 10. Sea 9. Hazy.Barometer711.5.Heavysqualls.”“Hazy”—his usual understatement. Steam bath would be more like it.

Overheadit looksas ifwaterandairhaveunited, leavingtheworldonlythreeelements insteadof four.Thestormhasgrownstillwilder—exactlyas theOldManprophesied.Igetmyoilskinsdownfromthehook,wrapahandtowelaroundmyneckas

usual, and fetch my rubber boots from the sound room, where they’ve beenstandingneartheheatertodry.Iintendtostandwatchwiththenavigator.JustasI have one boot halfway on, the floor goes out from under me. I roll in themiddle of the gangway like a beetle on its back. As soon as I find my feet,anotherlurchknocksmeoveragain.Ifinallymanagetohoistmyselfuponthewaterdistributors.Thebootsarewetinside.Myextendedfootwillnotgointotheshank.Itnever

worksverywellstandingup,soItryitsittingdown.That’sbetter.Shouldhavedoneitthefirsttime.ThenextrollpushestheCommander’sgreencurtainalltheway open. He’s composing the war log again, chewing on his pencil. Thesentence he’s written probably contains one word too many. The Old Manalways acts as if he’s concocting an overseas telegram and eachword costs afortune.Nowtheoilskinbreechesover theboots.They’rewet insidetoo.Oilskins—

anotheroneofthoseantiquatedexpressions;infactthey’remadeofrubberizedcloth. Isuffersomeminordislocationsgetting the trousersas farasmyknees.Okay,upoffyourrearendandontoyourfeet!Thedamnpantscontinuetofightme.I’minasweatbeforeIfinallydragthemupovermyleatherclothes.Andnowtheoilskin jacket. It’s tightunder thearmsbecauseIhaveon two

sweaters. They say it’s very cold topside. After all, it’s November and we’reprettyfarnorth.Ireallyoughttogetmybearingsagainfromthechart.Wemust

be plowing around in the sixties. Probably not far from Iceland.Actually,wewereoriginallysupposedtobeheadingforthelatitudeofLisbon.Nowthesou’wester.Inside,it’ssoppingwet.Thecoldonmyscalpmakesme

shudder.Thestrapshavebeenleft tied,andthedamphasswollentheknotssomuchthattheycan’tbeundone.TheCommanderstopscomposinghistelegraphese,getsup,stretches,seesme

strugglingwiththestraps,andneedlesme.“Hardlifeatsea,isn’tit?”Everything thatwashanging isnowstanding straightout from thewalls.A

pair of seaboots slides fromone sideof the compartment to theother. I climbelegantlythroughthehatch,onlytobecaughtinthecontrolroombythereverseroll. I grab for the low railing on the chart table and miss, lose my balancecompletely,andsitdownhardonthefloodingandpumpingdistributor.TheOldMan’sintoninghisdamnfoolrefrain:“Takecare,myprettypet,you’llloseyourbalanceyet!”Musthavebeenahitbeforemytime.The room tips to port. I’m sent flying against the rounded housing of the

gyrocompassbutmanagetograbontotheladder.TheOldManswearsheoncesaw a Cuban rumba that was absolutely amateurish compared to myperformance.Derisively he acknowledgesmy balletic gifts… andmy obviouspredilectionfornationalandnativedances.Youhave toadmit thathe’snevercaughtoffbalance.He’ll start to stagger,

and quick as a flash he’ll be looking for a suitable landing place. Takingadvantageoftheimpetushe’sgivenbytherollingoftheboat,hesteershimselfso as to end up in a dignified sitting position. Then he usually looks aroundcalmly,asthoughtheonethinghe’dhadinmindwastoresthisbacksideonthechartchest.TheSecondWatchOfficer comes downdripping.Agreat shower shoots in

behindhim.“Ahogfishleapedstraightoverourcannon—rightoverit!Wehadoneofthosesteepwavesatanangletoport,andthehogfishjumpedoutofitasifitwasawall,straightoverthecannon!Couldhardlybelieveit!”Islingthebroadsafetybeltwithitsheavysnaphookaroundmeandclimbup

after him. It’s dark in the tower, except for the pale gleamof the helmsman’sinstrumentdials.Aboveusthere’sagurglingsoundonthebridge.Iwaitafewseconds until it lets up, then force the heavy hatch cover up as fast as I can,climbout,andslamthecoverdownagain.Success!ButinstantlyIhavetoduckbehindthebridgebulwarkalongwiththerestofthemtoavoidthenexthissingwave.Thewaterfallcrashesonmyback,andeddiestugatmylegs.Beforethey

canpullmeoffmyfeet,IattachthesnapofmysafetybelttotheTBTpostandjammyselfbetweentheperiscopehousingandthebridgepartition.NowIcanventuremyfirstglanceoverthebulwark.Mygod,that’snoocean

out there!Whatmeetsmyeyes isaquiveringgraywhitesnowlandscape;withthewindstrippingablizzardoffoamfromitshills.Darkfissuresrunthroughthewhite:blackbandsthatheavethiswayandthat,constantlycreatingnewshapesandpatterns.Novaultofsky, justa flatgrayplate that’salmost restingon thegray-whitewasteland.The air is a fogof flying saltwater—anoverpowering fog that reddens the

eyes,stiffensthehands,andquicklysucksallwarmthoutofthebody.Theroundedformofoursaddletankrollslazilyoutofafoamingeddy.The

wavethatboreusupbeginstosink,theboatheelsfartherandfarthertoportandremains there for seconds at a time at an extreme angle, dropping deeper anddeeper.Onewhite-flutedwaveafteranothermovesindolentlytowardtheboat.Now

and again there’s one that towers over the rest with a mighty crest of foam.Immediatelyinfrontoftheboatthewallofwaterbeginstocurve,slowlyatfirst,thenfasterandfaster,untilitbreaksontheforeshipwithacrashlikeamonstroushammer.“Standby,dangerahead!”roarsthenavigator.Ageyserfoamsupthesideof

thetower—andbreaksoverus.Ablowontheshoulders,thenwaterthatwhirlsupfrombelowtoriseashighasyourbelly.Thebridgequiversandquakes.Theboatisrackedbyaviolentshudder.Finallytheforeshipemerges.Thenavigatorshouts,“Lookout—oneofthose—tearyourightoutofthebridge!”For a couple of seconds the boat is racing through a valley. Mountainous

whitewavescutofftheview.Thenweareliftedoncemore,glidingupagiganticslope.Our circle of visionwidens as the boat rises higher and higher, until itreachesthefoamingcrestofthewave,andwelookoutoverthestormyseaasiffromawatchtower; it’sno longer theolddark-greenAtlanticout therebut theoceanofsomeplanetthat’sstillbeingtornbythepangsofcreation.Thedutyperiodforthoseonbridgewatchhasbeencutinhalf.Morewould

beunendurable.Twohoursofduckingdown,staring,andduckingdownagain,andyou’refinished.I’mgladIcanstillmovesufficiently,whenmytimeisup,togetmyselfbelow.

I’msoexhaustedthatI’dbegladtoletmyselfdropontothefloorplates,wetclothesandall.I’monlyvaguely,foggilyawareofwhatI’mdoing.Myeyelidsareinflamed.IfeeliteverytimeIclosethem.Bestthingtodois

shutyoureyes,letyourselfgo,stretchout.Righthereinthecontrolroom.ButI’mstillconsciousenoughtomakemywayaft.AsI liftmyrightlegtoclimbthroughthehatchIalmostscreamwithpain.Undressing is only possible given long pauses to getmybreath.Again and

again I have to clench my teeth to keep from groaning aloud. And now theworst,thegymnasticsofhoistingmyselfintomybunk.Noladderlikethoseinsleeping cars. That final push with the toes of the left foot, like mounting ahorse.MyeyesarewetwhenIfinallyliedown.

Awholeweekof storm!How long is thisgoing to last? Incredible thatourbodies adjust to these torments. No rheumatism, no sciatica, no lumbago, noscurvy,nodiarrhea,nocolic,nogastritis,noseriousinflammations.Apparentlyweareassoundasabell,asresistantasourracingdiesels.

Friday.Anotherdayofdepresseddozingandlaboriousattemptstoread.I’mlying inmy bunk. I can hear the sharp splash ofwater landing in the controlroom.Thetowerhatchmustbeclosedbutnotmadefast,sowhenthecockpitisfloodedagushofwateralwayspoursthrough.The navigator appears from forward and announces that a newman in his

watchhasbeenhithard.“He’ssittingonthefloorplatesvomitingnonstop…”Toouramazementheaccompaniesthiswithvividpantomime.Wealsolearn

fromhimthatoneofthestokershascomeupwithaninventionthat’scatchingon fast: he’s hung a tin can around his neck like a gasmask. Threemen arealready followinghis example and running aroundwith “vomit cans,” he tellsmewithoutatraceofmalice.Ican’tstayinthesamepositionformorethanfiveminutesatatime.Iusemy

lefthandtoholdontooneofthebarsofthebunkrailingandtwistmybodysothatIcanbracemyselfagainstthewall.Butthecoldoftheironsoonpenetratesthethinwoodandeventhebunkrailingsendsicychillsintomyhand.

Thehatchtothegalleyopens.Ifeelthepressureonmyearsandeverysoundgoesflat.Thedieselintakedoorshavegoneunderwaterintheheavysea,sothedieselscannolongerdrawtheirairthroughtheoutboardpipes.Lowpressure—high pressure. Eardrums in, eardrums out—and you’re supposed to be able tosleep.Iturnonmystomachandpushmyleftarmovertheedgeofthebunkforadded support.Before longa stoker comingoffduty lurches in andbangsmyarmwiththefullweightofhisbody.“Ouch!”“What’sthat?—Oh!Sorry.”Thebunk,whichatfirstsighthadseemedtoonarrow,isnowmuchtoowide.

However many different positions I try, I can’t find any firm hold. Finally Iremainonmystomach,legsspreadwidelikeawrestlertryingnottobeturnedoveronhisback.Sleepisoutofthequestion.HourslaterIhitontheideaofjammingmybolsterbetweenmybodyandthe

bunkrailing.Broadsideitwon’tfitbutwiththenarrowenditworks.Inowliefirmlywedgedbetweenthewoodenwallandthebunkrailing.Iseemyselfasan illustration inmyanatomytextbook,printed inred, inan

affectedpose,withnumbers showing thevariousmusclegroups.Thepracticaladvantageofmy anatomycourse is that nowat least I canname eachmusclethat’shurtingme.OrdinarilyIcarrythesefibrousbundlesofflesharoundonmybones, conscious atmostof satisfaction at theway they contract and relax—aselfsufficient, practical system intelligently arranged and operating flawlessly.But now the system will no longer function; it rebels, makes trouble, sendswarningsignals:astitchhere,atearingpainthere.ForthefirsttimeinmylifeIbecomeawareof the component parts of this apparatus ofmine: theplatysmathatIneedtomovemyhead;thepsoasmuscleformovingthebonesinmyhip.Ihave the least trouble with my biceps—they’re in training. But my pectoralmusclesarearealproblem.Imusthavebeenlyingallcrampedup—otherwisewhyshouldtheyhurtlikethis?

Saturday.Anoteinmyblueexercisebook:“Senseless—joyridingaroundinmid-Atlantic.Nosignoftheenemy.Feelsasifwe’retheonlyshipinexistence.Stenchofbilgeandvomit.TheCommanderfindstheweatherperfectlynormal.TalkslikeaveteranofCapeHorn.”

Sunday.Thedailytestdives,usuallyabore,havebecomeablessing.Welongforeveryminuteofrelaxationtheybring.Tobeabletostretch,golimp,breathedeeplyandfreelyforawhileinsteadofduckingandgraspingforhandholds;tostandsafely,uprightandrelaxed.With thecommand“Standby todive!” theritualbegins.“Standby toblow

tanks!” is next. The Chief has stationed himself behind the two hydroplaneoperators. The control-room mates at the compressed-air controls report,“One!”—“Three,bothsides!”—“Five!”TheChiefshoutsuptothetower,“Readytoblow!”“Flood!”comesthevoiceoftheSecondWatchOfficerfromabove.“Flood!”theChiefrepeats.Thecontrol-roommatesopenthevalves.“Forwardharddown—aftneutral!”TheChief.At“neutral”hehastoraisehis

voicetobeheardovertheroarofthewaterrushingintothedivingcells.Atfiftyfeethehasthetrimcellsemptied.Insteadofthecrashingofthewaveswehearthehissofcompressedairandthenatoncetheroarofwaterbeingforcedoutofthetrimcells.Atahundredfeetthehandofthedepthmanometerstops.Theboatis almost on an even keel but is still rocking so violently that a pencil on thecharttablerollsbackandforth.TheChief has the blowing of the diving cells stopped and theCommander

orders,“Takeherdownand leveloffatahundredfortyfeet.”Butevenat thatdepththeboatisstillnotatrest.TheOldMantakesuphiscustomarypositionwithhisbackagainst theperiscopehousing. “Takeher toahundred seventy!”Andafterawhile,“So,peaceatlast!”Thankgod!Thetorturehasstopped,thistimeforatleastanhour,asIlearn

fromtheOldMan’sdirectionstotheChief.Myheadisstillfullofroaringandcrashing,asifIwereholdingbigseashells

tomyears.Quietonlygraduallyreassertsitselfinmyechoingskull.Now,notasingleminutetowaste!Quick,uponthebunk.JesusGod,these

pains!Igoheavyallover—mystifflyoutstretchedarmslaidparalleltomybodywithmyhandspalmdownonthemattress.WithmychindrawninIcanseemyribcagerisingandfalling.AlthoughIhaven’tyetbeenonthebridgetoday,myeyesareburning.Afterall, they’renot fisheyes,designed topeer throughsaltwater.Isuckmylipsbetweenmyteethandtastethesalt.Ilickaroundmymouth

andtastemoresalt.Verylikelymywholebodyiscoveredwithit.Seawaterhasmanagedtocreepineverywhere.I’massaltyasawell-curedhamorKasselerRippchen. Kasseler Rippchen—with sauerkraut, bay leaves, peppercorns, andlotsofgarlic.Withgoosefat,evenbetter,andwithaglassofchampagne,afeast.Funnything:themomentthestomach-churningandjouncingstops,myappetitecomesback.Howlonghasitbeen,inpointoffact,sinceIlastate?It’sbeautifulinmybunk.I’veneverknownhowmagnificentitcanbejustto

behere.Imakemyselfasflatasaboardandfeelthemattresswitheverysquareinchofmyback,thebackofmyhead,theinsideofmyarms,thepalmsofmyhands.Icurlthetoesofmyrightfootandthentheleft,stretchoutfirstoneleg,then the other. I’m growing, getting longer all the time. In the loudspeakerthere’sasoundlikesizzlingfat,thenagurgle,and,finally,arecordtheOldManbroughtaboard:

Sonsmaportecochèrechanteunaccordéon,musiquefamilièredesancienneschansons.

Etj'oublielamisèrequandvientl'accordéonsouslaportecochèredemavieillemaison…

Ibet this recordwasn’tapresent fromhisdonna, the ladyof thegreen ink.WhereitcamefromIcanonlyguess.TheOldMan?—Stillwatersrundeep.HerecomesIsenbergtoreportthatlunchisserved.“Soearly?”IlearnthattheOldManhasadvancedthemiddaymealbyanhoursothatthe

mencaneatinpeace.AtonceIbegintoworryabouttheotherendofthisprocess.Eatinginpeaceis

all very well—but how are we going to get rid of what we’ve digested? Ishudderatthethoughtofthehead.MyhesitationiscertainlynotsharedbytheOldMan.Heconsumesgigantic

slices of head cheese spreadwith thick layers ofmustard,with pickles, slicedonions, and canned bread on the side. The First Watch Officer painstakingly

excises a piece of rind that has a couple ofwhite bristles in it from his headcheeseandpushesitdisgustedlytotheedgeofhisplate.“Whiskerybastard,isn’tit!”saystheOldMan,andthen,chewingvigorously,

“Whatweneedisbeer—andfriedpotatoes.”Butinsteadofthelonged-forbeerthestewardbringstea.TheSecondWatch

Officergetsreadytoclampthepotbetweenhisthighsasusual,thenrealizesthatthisisnolongernecessaryandstrikeshisforeheadtheatricallywiththepalmofhislefthand.The Old Man extends the time underwater by another twenty minutes

“becauseit’sSunday!”Themeninthepettyofficers’quartersmakeuseoftheunderwaterinterlude

in theirusual fashion.Frenssen reports that therewasabombingattackon thetrainduringhislastleave,soheonlygotasfarasStrasbourg,wherehepromptlyfoundthecathouse.“Shesaidshehadaspecialty.Wouldn’ttellmewhat.Iwentalong.Shegets

undressed, lies down. I think, let’s seewhat the surprise is, and I’m about tohump her, when she says, ‘You want a fuck, sweetheart? My god, howprimitive.’Andsuddenlyshetakeshereyeout,aglasseye,naturally,andleavesakindofredrole.‘Goahead,nowyoucanreallyeyeme!’”“You goddam pig!”—“Tell that to your grandmother!”—“Of all the filthy

buggers!”—“Youmakemepuke!”—“Theyoughttocutyourprickoff!”Butwhen the cursing has suhsided the dieselmechanicmate says equably,

“Stillit’safirst-rateidea,isn’tit?”Ifeelnausearisinginmythroat.Istareattheceilingandseeapaleblurred

faceandadarkredholeintheplywoodbackground.Wasthattrue?Iwonder.Dothese things happen? Can anyone actually invent such monstrosities? Isn’tFrenssensimplyputtingonanact?I’mstill inmybunkwhenwesurface.Mywholebody isawareofhowthe

boat begins tomove—gently at first. Then I feel like a driver going around acurveinwinterwhenhisrearwheelsstarttoskid.Soonthewholecompartmentstarts to reel. Ihear the firstwavesbattingatus likehugepaws.We’reon thesurface,andtheSt.Vitusdancebeginsagain.Noisesfromthecontrolroom.Themaninthereiscursingout loudbecause

waterkeepspouringdownonhim.Iduckthroughthehatch.Whenheseesmehebeginsagain,“Goddammess!Soontherewon’tbeasafeplaceleft.”

Monday.Theorderlyhasworktodo.Severalmenhavebeeninjured.Bruises,asmashedfinger,anailturnedviolet,bloodblisters—nothingserious.Onemanwas flungout ofhis bunk, another in the control roomwashurled against theventilator. A seaman had his head banged against the sonar. It’s a puncturewoundandlooksnasty.“Whatamess!IhopehecancopebecauseotherwiseI’llhavetotakeahand,”

saystheOldMan.I get ready for the Second Watch Officer’s watch at 16.00. One of the

lookoutsissick.I’mtotakehisplace.BeforeIcansomuchasliftthehatchcoverI’msoakingwet.Iwedgemyself

betweentheperiscopehousingandthebridgebulwarkasquicklyasIcan,andsnapon thehookofmy safetybelt.Only thendo I attempt to forcemybodyuprightsothatIcanlookoutoverthebulwark.Anothersighttotakemybreathaway.Chaos!Thewavesoverridetheirown

ranks,fallingononeanother’sbacksasthoughtotearthemapart.The boat is poised on the tip of a gigantic wave: a piggyback ride on a

leviathan.ForsecondsIcanlookoutovertheage-oldseascapeasifI’minthegondolaofaferriswheel.Thentheboatbeginstowaver.Thebowsearchesthiswayandthat,tryingtofinditsgoal.Thentheroaringdownwardslidebegins.Beforetheboatcanrightitselfinthevalley,asecondgiganticwave—tonsof

crushingweight—smashesdownonourupperdeck in furiousuproar, ramsusbehindtheknees,coveringuscompletely,whirlsandseethesaroundourbodies.Itseemsaneternitybefore theboatfinallyshakes itselffree.For justasecondthewholelengthoftheforeshipisvisible,thenthenextpawstrikes.Thebackofmyneck is soonburning, rubbed rawby the stiff collar of the

oilskins.Thesaltwateronlyincreasesthepain;itburnslikeacid.Ihaveacutontheballofmyleftthumb.Itwon’thealaslongasseawater

can find itsway into thewound.Thebrine is slowlyeatingus away.Thehellwithitall!Andthenthere’sthisfiercecoldwind.Itflaysthewhiteskinfromthewaves

andcarriesitoffinhorizontaltatters.Itturnsthedrivenspraytobuckshot.Whenitsweepsoverthebridgewehavetotakeshelterbehindthebulwark.

TheSecondWatchOfficerturnsaround.Hegrinsatme,hisfacebeatenred.Hewantsmetoseethathe’snotamaneasilyimpressedbythissortofknockingabout.Abovetheroaringandthehissingheshouts,“Wouldn’titbesomething—weather like this and no ship under your feet! And a heavy suitcase in eachhand!”Another blow strikes the tower. A heavy wave smashes down on our bent

backs. But the SecondWatch Officer is already up, his eyes focused on thehorizon. He continues to roar. “Water, water, everywhere, and not a drop todrink!”Ihavenodesiretocompetewiththeweather,soIsimplytouchmyforehead

whenheturnstolookatme.Every time I take the binoculars frommy eyes,water runs downmy arms.

There’salwaystroublewiththeoilskinsandmoredamntroublewiththeglasses!Mostofthetimethereisn’tasinglepaironthebridgebecausethey’veallbeenhopelessly fogged by saltwater. Themen are alwaysworking on them in thecontrolroom,butassoonasapairiswellpolishedandhandedup,it’samatterof minutes for the salt water to ruin them again.We’ve long since given uptryingtomakeanyuseofoursoddenpolishingleathers.SuddenlyIgrin,rememberingthestormstheymakeinseamovies,inatank

withmodel ships, and for close-ups a piece of the bridgemountedon rockersandtiltedleft,thenright,whilebucketsofwaterarebeingthrownfromallsidesin theactors’ faces.And insteadofduckingdown, theheroes stareall around,lookingthreatening.Heretheycouldtakelessonsintherealthing:we’reonlyvisibleforseconds

atatime.Webendourheads,hunchover,presentingnothingbutthetopsofourskulls to thewaves.An instant toobserveyour sectoroutofcloselynarrowedeyes,thendownwiththeface.Nomatterhowwedodge,thethinwhiplashesofspraystrikehome.There’snoprotectionagainstthem.Arealwavethatsmashesyou straight in the face is always easier to bear than these fierce, underhandlashes.Theyburnlikefire.ImmediatelyIhavetotakeanothergurglingcascadefullintheback.Looking

down, I see the water eddy around the sides of my boots, flood up, and ebbsucking away, leaving them like thepiles of awharf.Another flood, and thenanother.Thechange-overaheadoftimeisablessing.TheSecondWatchOfficermay

actastoughashelikes—notevenhecouldendureafullstint.

Undressingishardwork.JustasIhaveoneleghalfwayoutofmytrousers,thefloorgoesfromundermyfeet.Ilandfulllengthonthefloorplates.Lyingonmybackonthehandwheels,Ifinallygetbothlegsfree.Thecontrol-roommate throwsmeahand towel. I still have togetoutof a

drippingwetsweaterandsoakedunderclothesbeforeIcandrymyselfwithonehandwhileIbracemyselfwiththeother.Iamterrifiedof thenight.HowwillIbeabletoget throughthehoursona

mattressthatisbucking,swaying,suddenlydroppingoutfromunderme?

Tuesday.It’sbeenaweekandahalfsincethestormbegan,aweekandahalfofmartyrdomandtorture.In the afternoon I climb onto the bridge. Above us a tattered sky and the

wavesleapingatitinunceasinginsaneattacks;thewaterseemstobemakingadesperate effort to tear itself free from the earth, but however high thewavesarch and leap, gravitydrags themback, collapsing themwith a crash intooneanother.Thespeedwithwhichthewavesapproachusisbreathtaking.Thebreakersno

longerhaveacrestoffoam;evenaseachoneforms,thestormsnatchesitaway.Thehorizonhascompletelydisappeared.Icannotendurethisformorethanhalfanhour.Myhandsarecrampedfromholdingon.Waterstreamsdownthehollowofmyspineandintomytrousers.The moment I am below, the boat resounds with the blows of a gigantic

sledgehammer.Thepressurehullquiversineveryrib.Itcreaksandgroans.

Wednesday. In the late afternoon I amperchedwith theCommander on thechart chest. From the tower down into the control room comes the sound ofviolentcursing.ItgoesonandonuntiltheCommandergetsup,seizestheladderto the towerhatch, andkeepinghis head at a safedistance from the continualtrickleofwaterdemands,“Whatthedevil’sgoingon?”“Boatkeepsswingingtoport—hardtoholdheroncourse.”“Don’tgetexcited!” theCommandershoutsup.Heremainsstandingbeside

thetowerhatch, thenbendsoverthechart table.Afterashort timehecallsfor

thenavigator.AllIgraspis,“Nolongeranypoint—hardlyanyheadwayovertheseabed.”TheCommanderstillhesitatesforawhile,thenovertheloudspeakersystem

announces,“Standbytodive!”Thecontrolroommate,whohasbeencrouchingon the flood distributor like a tired fly, springs to his feet, heaving a sigh ofrelief.TheChiefcomesthroughthehatchandgiveshisorders.Thereisonlytheslurpingof thebilgewater tobeheard and thedrumbeatof thewavesgreatlymagnifiedby the sudden stillness.A showerofwater pours down through thetower;thebridgelookoutsclimbdowndripping.Twoofthemimmediatelytakechargeofthehydroplanes;theFirstWatchOfficerisalreadyordering,“Flood!”Hissing,theairescapesfromthedivingcells.Wequicklytiltdownward.The

bilgewater shoots gurgling forward.A shatteringblow smacks into the tower,but thenextwaveonlysoundsdull,and thefollowingonesmeetnoresistancewhatever.Moreroaringandgurgling,thensilence.Westandaroundstiffly,bemusedbythesuddenpeace.Thestillnessislikea

greatwallofinsulationbetweenusandthechaoticsymphonyabove.ThefaceoftheFirstWatchOfficerlooksscalded.Hislipsarebloodless,his

eyes deep in their sockets.There is caked salt on his cheekbones. Panting, hefreeshimselffromthewater-loggedtowelaroundhisneck.Thedepthmanometer shows130 feet.But thehandmoves furtherover the

dial:160,190.Thistimewehavetogodeepertofindquiet.Onlyafter210feetdoestheChiefbalancetheboattoanevenkeel.Thebilgewaterripsthroughthestern,thenbackagain.Graduallyitsettlesdown:theroaringandslappingcease.Atincanthathasbeenrollingoverthefloorplatesnowliesmotionless.“Boatinbalance,”theChiefreportstotheCommander.The First Watch Officer sinks onto the chart chest and dangles his white,

bleachedhandsbetweenhisknees,tooexhaustedtotakeoffhiswetclothing.Twohundredtenfeetofwaterovertheboat.Wearenowassafefromtheblowsofthewavesasthoughwewerelyingin

thedeadangleofacannon.Theseaprotectsusfromitself.TheCommander turns tome. “Noneed tokeephangingon.”And I realize

thatI’mstillclingingtightlytoapipe.Thestewardbringsinthedishesfortheeveningmealandstartstoassemble

thetablerailings.“Downwiththerailings,youthere!”theChiefsnapsathimandlikelightning

reachestodoithimself.Theloafofbreadthatthestewardbringsinhasbeenalmostentirelydestroyed

by the damp. Admittedly, the green islands ofmold that spring up every daythrough the brown crust have been wiped away by Cookie with his stinkingdishcloth—butthathasn’thelpedmuch.Thebreadispenetratedbygreenmold—like Gorgonzola. In addition, yellow sulfur-like deposits have made theirappearance.The Chief says, “Don’t say anything against mold. Mold is healthy.” He

waxesenthusiastic.“Moldisanobleplant,ofthesamefamilyasthehyacinth!Inthisplaceweshouldbethankfulforanythingthatgrows.”Weapplythesamepatiencewewouldbringtobearoncomplicatedjigsawsto

whittleout the smallhalfway-healthycoresof the thick slices.Outofawholeloafonlyafragmentremains—smallerthanachild’sfist.“Sundayart,”saystheCommandercontemptuously.TheSecondWatchOfficer,however,maintainsthatthisbreadsculpturegives

himpleasure.Whilehezealouslycutsirregularstarsoutofgrayslicesofbread,hetellsusaboutsailorswhohavenourishedthemselvesformonthsonworms,mouse droppings, and biscuit crumbs. He embellishes his description with somanydetailsthatyoucouldbelievehehasexperienceditallhimself.FinallytheChiefinterruptshim.“Weknowallthat,youoldAztec.Thatwas

when you were roaming around the Pacific with Lieutenant-CommanderMagellan, just because the old trophy-hunterwanted some straits named afterhim.Iseeitall.Musthavebeenahardlife!”

Thursday. Exhausted. Done for. No lessening of the storm. Deliverance,finally, toward evening, when the Commander gives the order to submergebecauseoflimitedvisibility.Gradually it fallsquiet in theboatagain.TheBerliner is sittingclose to the

control-roomhatch,takingapairofbinocularsapart—waterbetweenthelenses.Theradioshackisempty.Theradiomanisnextdoorinthesoundroom.He’s

putontheheadsetandiscasuallyturningthewheelofthesounddetector.In the Officers’ Mess the First Watch Officer is busy with his loose-leaf

notebooks—whatelse!Hehasevengotoutastapler.Funnythatweshouldhave

a stapleronboard.There’s apencil sharpener aswell.Apparentlywe’re fittedoutasacompleteoffice.Atleastheleavesthetypewriteralone.The Chief is looking at photos. The Second Engineer appears to be in the

engineroom.TheCommanderisdozing.Quite unexpectedly theChief says, “At home theymust have had snowby

now.”“Snow!”The Commander opens his eyes. “Could be—we’re already well into

November.Funnything,it’syearssinceI’veseensnow.”The Chief passes his photographs around: snowy landscapes. Figures like

darkblotsonpurewhite.TheChiefwithagirl,hillswithskitracks;afencerunsacrosstheleftsideofthepicture.Atthebaseofthepicketsthesnowhasmeltedaway.WhileIstareatthepicture,memoriesreturn.Amountaintown,shortlybefore

Christmas.Thewarmsecurityof low-ceilingedrooms.Tirelesshandsusingallsorts of knives and chisels to carve figures out of soft pine for the greatrevolvingmechanicalChristmasmountain.Thesmellof thewood, thewarmthofthestoveenvelopme,alongwiththeodorofpaintsandglues,andthesharparoma of schnapps from the huge glass in themiddle of the table, called the“ridingschool”becauseitgoesaroundandaround.Thechurchsmellofincenserisinginsmokingbluecolumnsfromthemouthsofthelittlecarvedmineworkersand dwarfs in leather pants, and the wild mountain goblins sculpted out ofturnips. And outside, snow and cold—so piercing it made your nostrils burnwhen you breathed.Horse-drawn sleds tinklingwithmany-toned bells. Steamfrom thehorses’nostrilswhite in the light of theharness lanterns. Illuminatedangelseverywhereinthewindowsbetweenbanksofmoss.“Yes,”saystheOldMan.“Realsnowforonce—that’swhatI’dliketosee.”TheChiefputshisphotosawaythoughtfully.TheCommanderhasthetimeoftheeveningmealmovedup.“It’sspeciallyfortheSecondWatchOfficer,”hesays.“He’stobeallowedto

eatinpeace!”Hardlyhas theSecondWatchOfficerwasheddownhis lastmouthful,when

thecommandringsthroughtheboat,“Standbytosurface!”Immediatelymymusclestense.

In themiddle of the night the engines are stopped again. I sit up suddenly,confused,inahalf-sleep.Thedroneofthedieselskeepsoninmyhead.Asinglebulb is burning in the compartment.Through thehatch I hear orders from thecontrol room, spoken low, as though the men were involved in some secretactivity.Ihearahissing.Theboatslantsforward.Theglowofthelampmovesupwardabovethehatch.Thewaves,stillbreakingagainstthebodyoftheboat,soundasifsomeonewerebeatingontightlystretchedcanvas.Thensilence.Thebreathingoftheoff-dutywatchisclearlyaudible.Amantapshiswayfromthecontrolroomthroughthecompartment.Frenssencatchesholdofhim.“What’sup?”“Noidea!”“Telluswhat’sgoingon—c’mon.”“Nothingspecial.Novisibilitynow.Blackasabear’sass.”“Sothat’sit,”saysFrenssen.Isettlemyselfproperlyandgotosleepwithafeelingofdeepsatisfaction.It must be five o’clock when I wake up again. It’s very hot in the

compartmentand thefumesfromtherestingdieselshavepenetrated theroom.Theventilatorsarehumming.Istretchoutcomfortably.Thebunkdoesn’tmove.Ifeelthisblessingallthewaydowntothepitofmystomach.

Friday.TheCommanderdoesn’tsurfaceuntilbreakfast isover.Evenat130feet the boat is beingmoved by the groundswell.We soon break out into thetearingwhirlpool and the first waves crash against the tower. Somuchwatercomesdownthatthebilgeisinstantlyfull.Andthere’snopositioninwhichyourmusclescanrelax.Thedirectionof thewavesmusthavechangedagain.Althoughtheboathas

maintainedthesamecourseunderwaterit’snowrollingmoretoport.Attimesitholdsatanextremeangleforfrighteningperiodsoftime.The navigator reports that the wind has shifted and is nowwestsouthwest.

Thatexplainsit!“Abeamsea—wewon’tbeabletotakeitforlong!”saystheCommander.

Butatlunch,whilewearelaboriouslytryingtokeepourselvesatthetable,hespeaksreassuringly.“Thewavesarecomingatabitofananglenow.Thewindwillsoonshift.Ifitcomesfromasterneverythingwillbeallright.”Idecide tostayat the tableafter themeal. Idiscoverabookslidingupand

down the floor in front of the Second Watch Officer’s locker. I reach for itawkwardlyandopenitatrandom.Iperceiveonlyindividualwords:“Squaresailyard—innerjib—topgallantsail—backbrace—jackblock…”Professionalvocabularyfromtheeraofsailingships:beautiful,proudwords.

Wehavenothingtocomparewiththem.The roaring of the waves along our steel skin swells again and again in a

furiouscrescendo.Suddenlytheboatheelstoport.Iamthrownoutofmyseat,andthebookcase

empties itself completely.Whateverwas left between the railings on the tablefalls crashing to the floor. The Old Man has braced himself sideways like atobogganerputtingonthebrakes.TheChiefhasslidtothefloor.Weallremainlike this for someminutes as thoughposing for anold-fashioned camera.Theboatwillneverrightitselffromthisextremeroll.Mygod,wecan’tgetoutofit!But after severalminutes the compartment tilts back to the horizontal. The

Chiefexhaleswithashrillsirenwheeze.InslowmotiontheCommanderpropshimselfuprightandsays,“Manalive!”“Oha!”someoneroarsinthebowcompartment.Iwanttostayhuddledonthefloor.Theroomimmediatelyheelstostarboard.

Thedinisevenwilder.Mygod,howcantheysurviveupthereonthebridge!Ipretendtoread,butthoughtsarewhirlingthroughmyhead.Theboatissure

to make it, says the Commander. More seaworthy than any other vessel. Aballastkeeloneyardwide,halfayarddeep,filledwithironbars.Along-armedlever,balanced in themiddle.Nosuperstructures.Centerofgravity liesbelowthestructuralcenter.Nootherkindofshipcouldwithstandthis.“What’sthat?”askstheOldMan,lookingoveratmybook.“Somethingaboutsailingships.”“Hah!” he answers. “A full storm on a sailing ship, there’s something you

oughttolivethrough.Onaboatlikethisyoudon’tfeelathing.”“Thanks!”

“Makefastthetowerhatch—that’sallwehavetoworryabout.Butonsailingships—goodgod!Reefingandfurlingsails,sparegear lashedfast to thespars,stormjibsbenton,handlinesriggedondeck,hatchesbatteneddown—theworknever stops.And then nothing to do but sit in the cabin and trust to theLordGod. Nothing to eat. And up in the shrouds again, torn sails to clew up andunreef.Newonestolashonwhileyou’restandingonthejackstays.Andthenthebraceseverytimethewindshifts…”Thereitisagain,thatprecise,vigorous,powerfullanguage;we’repoorernow

thatit’sgone.AstheroomheelstoportIgettomyfeet.Iwanttogoandseetheinclination

indicatorinthecontrolroom.The inclination indicator is a simple pendulumwith a scale.The pendulum

has now swung a full fifty degrees, so the boat is heeling fifty degrees tostarboard. The pendulum remains stationary at fifty, as though nailed at thisextreme, because the boat hasn’t righted itself. I can only explain this bysupposingthatasecondwavemusthavecrashedoverherbeforeshecouldfreeherselffromthefirst.Nowthependulummovesevenfurther—tosixtydegrees.Andforaninstantitreachessixty-five!TheCommanderhas followedme. “Looks impressive,”he saysbehindme,

“butyouhave to subtract something,because thependulum’sownmomentumcarriesittoofar.”FortheCommandertobereallydisconcerted,theboatwouldprobablyhavetobesailingkeelup.Themenondutyinthecontrolroomarenowwearingoilskins,andthebilge

hastobebailedalmostcontinuously.Itseemstomethatthepumpsarerunningnonstop.Thenavigatorlurchesintotheroom,likeamanwithabrokenfoot.“Well?”TheCommanderturnstohim.“Sincemidnightadriftoffifteenmilesmaybeassumed.”“You could really express yourself a little less tentatively. You’re always

right.”TheCommanderaddsunderhisbreath,formybenefit,“He’salwaysthatcautious, but in the end his calculations work out almost exactly. It happenseverytime.”Aradiogramhasarrived;theCommanderishandedtheslipofpaper.Bending

over his arm, I read the message with him. “Impossible to reach area ofoperationsatdesignatedtimebecauseofweather—UT.”

“We’llcopythatandsignitwithourowninitials,”saystheCommander.Thenhe pushes himself to his feet and, calculating how much the boat will heel,staggersforward.Soonhe’sbackwithahalfunfoldedchartthathespreadsoutonthechartchest.“This is whereUT is—almost directly in our line of advance. And here is

whereweare.”I can see that these two points are some hundreds of miles apart. The

Commander looksmorose. “If it’s all part of the same depression, then goodnight! It looks like an enormously extended storm system, and there’s noindicationit’sgoingtomoveonsoon.”Thoughtfullyhefoldsupthechartandpushesbackthesleeveofhissweater

sothathecanreadhiswatch.“Notlongtilldinner,”hesays,asthoughtosumupthewholepointoftheradiogramandhisreactions.WhendinnertimecomesandtheCommanderappearsintheOfficers’MessI

can’t believe my eyes—he’s wearing oilskins. The others stare at him as ifthere’s a stranger on board. We can hardly see anything of his face, he haswrappedhimselfupsocompletely.“This evening’s dinner dress will be oilskins,” the OldMan murmurs and

grinsatusfrombetweenthecollarofhisoilskinjacketandtheloweredbrimofhissou’westerasthoughthroughtheslitinavisor.“Well,gentlemen?”heasksimpatiently. “Not hungry today? Just when the cook has brought off thismagnificentcoup:soupinthisweather!”Ittakesawhileforustorouseourselves,andthenlikeobedientchildrenwe

tumble into the control room where the foul-weather gear is hanging. Thefamous statue of Laocöon conjures itself up before my eyes as I watch thecontortionsandcorkscrewmaneuverstheengineersandWatchOfficershavetoperformtogetintotheirstill-wetgear.Finally we sit down around the table, looking like carnival figures. The

Commanderisburstingwithmischievouspride.Suddenly there’s a crash in the gangway: the steward has landed on his

stomach.His hands are above his head, still clutching the soup tureen. Not adrophasbeenspilled.“It’snevergotthebetterofhimyet!”saystheCommander,unmoved,andthe

Chiefnodsinagreement.

“And no rehearsal—a performance like that first time around—he’s reallysomething!”TheSecondWatchOfficerservesthesoup—consistingofpotatoes,meat,and

vegetables—while I hold on to the safety belt under his oilskin jacket.Nevertheless,he’sonlygottothesecondmanbeforeheemptiesawholeladlefulontothetable.“Goddammit!”WhereupontheChiefletshishalf-fullplatespill,substantiallyincreasingthe

pondofsoupinfrontofus.Palechunksofpotatofloataboutinthedark-brownbrewbetween therailings—blocksof ice fromaglacier that’s justcalved.Thenexttimetheboatheels,onlythepotatoisleftonthetable;thesouphasfoundits way under the railings, slopping into the laps of the Commander and theChief.TheCommandercastsa triumphantglancearound the table.“Yousee?”He

canhardlywaitformoresouptooverflow.TheSecondWatchOfficer’sgurglinglaughter is interruptedbyadullcrash.

TheCommander’sgrinfreezes.Immediatelyhe’sallattention.TheChiefspringsup to get out of hisway asword comes from the control room: “Chart chestoverturned.”Through the hatch I can see fourmen struggling to put the heavy iron box

backinitsplace.The Commander looks disconcerted, then mutters to himself, “Incredible.

That chest has been there since this boat was commissioned and has nevermovedsomuchasaninch.”“No one at home will believe it,” the Chief remarks. “They simply can’t

imagine it.On our next leavewe ought to invent aU-boat game.Gowithoutshaving or washing formonths. No change of linen, into bedwith boots andstinkingleatherclotheson.Braceyourkneeagainst thetablewhileeating,andinsteadofservingspinachonaplate,plopitdownonthetabletop…”TheChiefgulpsacoupleofmouthfulsandgoesonelaboratinghisplan.“And

if the telephone rings, yell ‘Alarm!’ like amadman,knockover the table, andrushforthedoorlikegreasedlightning.”

Saturday. The gusts have once again become a single prolonged blast thatpummelstheboatheadon.Thebarographisdrawingasteeplinedownward.“I’d just like to know,” says the Old Man, “how the Tommies keep their

scows together in such heavenly weather. They can’t make the whole damnconvoyheave to.And theboyson those tin candestroyers—they’llbehavingquiteatimeofit!”Iremembertripsondestroyersatforcefive.Thatwasenough.Fullspeedwas

outofthequestion.Atsixourdestroyersdon’tleavetheharboratBrest.Timeoff.ButtheBritishdestroyerscan’tpickandchoosetheirweather.Theyhavetofurnishconvoyprotectioninanystorm—eventhisone.In the afternoon Idisguisemyself as agreat seadogandclimb the ladder. I

waitcloseunder thehatchcoveruntil thewaterhasgushedaway,push the lidopen,andclimbout.KickingthehatchshutandfasteningthesnapofmysafetybeltIdoinonemotion.Awavelikethebackofagiganticwhalerisesobliquelyinfrontoftheboat.It

getsbiggerandbigger, loses itshumpandstraightensup intoawall.Thewallbecomesconcave, rushes towardus,gleamingglassy-green.Andnowourbowplunges into it. “No longer—” The Second Watch Officer has hardly begunwhenthewavecrashesagainstthetower.Theboatreels.“—anyuse,”theSecondWatchOfficercompleteshissentenceaminutelater.I know of times when the whole deck crew has been torn out of a bridge

cockpitbyanoversizedwave,withoutanyoneintheboatknowingathingaboutit. Suchmurderouswaves are created at random from the piling of one swelluponanother.Againstagiantofthatkindnosafetybeltholds.Whatmustitfeel liketoliethereinthewater, inyoursoddengear,andsee

the boat moving away—smaller and smaller, hidden momentarily behind thewavesandthengoneforgood.You’redonefor,fini.Andtheexpressiononthefaceof the firstman todiscover that thewholebridgewatchhasdisappeared,thattheboatiswanderingblindlythroughtheseas…We’remaking slow speed;morewould be dangerous. The boat could dive

involuntarily.Therehavebeeninstancesofboatsrunningtoofastinaheavyseaandbeingdrivenatanangledownonemountainouswaveandintothenext,likeadowel,carriedbytheirownmomentumtoadepthofahundredfeetormore,

Thebridgewatchcameclosetobeingdrowned.Andiftoomuchwaterweretopourinthroughthedieselintakepipes,aboatcouldactuallysink.TheSecondWatchOfficer turns his red face towardme. “I’d like to know

howmuchprogresswe’rereallymaking!”Suddenlyheshouts,“Headsdown!”Whichmeans:duckandholdyourbreath.I just have time to see theopen-mouthedOfficer, thegreenmountain that’s

risingtotheleftinfrontofourtower,andthegreatwhitepawthatextendsfromit hesitating.Then it strikeswith thundering force on the side of the foreship.Theboatsagswayoverundertheblow.Downwithyourhead!Aboilingsurgehissesoverthebridge,submergesit.Wenolongerhaveashipunderourfeet.Butnowthesamewaveliftstheboatup.Thebowextendscleanoutofwater

andhangsforawhileinmidairuntilthewaveletstheboatfall.Waterrushesoffthroughthescuppersandtheopenafterendofthecockpit.Foamingwhirlpoolstearatourlegs.“Toodamnmuch,” growls theSecondWatchOfficer.Then just as thenext

waveisrunningthroughundertheboathehasthehatchopenedandwordpasseddown. “To the Commander: Visibility much impaired by breaking waves.Requestalterationofcoursethreehundreddegrees.”Foramomentradiomusicrisesfromtheopentowerhatch.Thenavoicefrom

below.“Threehundreddegreescourseauthorized.”“Altercoursetothreehundreddegrees,”theSecondWatchOfficerordersthe

helmsman. Slowly the boat turns until the waves are coming obliquely fromastern.Nowitwillperformlikearockinghorse.“Heading three hundred degrees,” comes the voice of the helmsman from

below.Thetowerhatchisclosedagain.My faceburns if I rubmy sleeveover it. I’veno ideahowoften I’vebeen

caughtbythewhiplashes.I’monlysurprisedthatmyeyesaren’tswollenshut.Everyblinkispainful.Myeyelidsseemtohavepuffedupdouble.Mygod,whatpunishment!InodwordlesslytotheSecondWatchOfficer,waitforaswirlingwhirlpoolto

subside,pullopenthehatch,anddisappearbelow.Bottomless depression overwhelms me. This martyrdom is a test of

endurance,anexercisetodeterminethelimitsofourcapacityforpain.

TheradiomanpicksupSOScallsfromseveralships.“Thecargohatchesonthefreightersmustbegettingsmashed,andtheholds

fillingwithwater.Thewaves’llbemakingmatchwoodofthelifeboatstoo.”The Old Man describes various kinds of storm damage that can afflict an

ordinaryship.“Ifthesteeringmechanismbreaksdownononeofthosebargesortheyloseascrew,there’snothingthecrewcandobutpray.”Theroarofthewater,therattlingofspray,andthehissingofthebilgeform

backgroundmusictothedullresoundingthumpofthewavesontheforeship.Icanonlymarvelthatthiswildupheavalhasn’trentourseams,thattheboat

hasn’tbeguntobuckle.Somedishesandafewbottlesofapplejuiceareallthathavebeenbrokensofar.Itseemsthatthewavescandonothingtotheshipitself.Buttheyareforcingusgraduallytoourknees.Themachinesholdup—onlywemeremenarepoorlyconstructedforsuchtorment.I can tell by the paucity of radio activity howunsuccessful theU-boats are

being.Requests for position reports, routine signals, test transmissions—that’sall.I’msuddenlyremindedofapassageinJosephConrad’sYouth,whenthebark

Judea, with a cargo of coal for Bangkok, runs into an Atlantic winter stormwhich littleby littledestroys theship: thebulwark, thestays, the lifeboats, theventilators, thedeckhouse, alongwith thegalley and the crew’squarters!Andhow they man the pumps, from captain down to cabin boy, slaving for theirlives,lashedtothemast—dayandnight.Thesentence,“Wehadforgottenwhatitwasliketofeeldry,”remainsinmymind.Thismemory bringsme comfort now: The sea cannot drown us. No other

kindofshipisasseaworthyasthisone.

Sunday. Before taking even the most trivial action I have to struggle withmyself.ShouldIevenbother—orwoulditbejustaswellnotto?It’s thelackofsleepthatunderminesourstrengthmostofall.Theonlyreal

peacecomeswhenthere’snovisibilityatallandtheCommanderordersadive.Oncetheboatisbalanced,yourarelyhearsomuchasaraisedvoice,Decksof

playingcards lie idle.During thehouror two thatwe’reunderwater,everyonetriestogetsomesleep.Thequietinthesubmergedboatdisconcertsmeeverytime.Whenallthemen

are lying in theirbunksoron thefloorovercomebyexhaustion, it’sas thoughtheboathadbeendesertedbyhercrew.

Monday. I summon up enough energy to note in my diary: “Impossible toserve meals. Whole thing meaningless. Dive shortly before two o’clock.Marvelous:We stay down.More and more inflammations. Carbuncles of theworstkind.Inflamedscabs.Icthyolointmentoneverything.”

Tuesday.TheCommanderwritesupthedayjustpastinthewarlog:

13.00 Both engines turning over fast enough to achieve halfspeed.Butweremainalmoststationary.

13.55Diveonaccountofbadweather.

20.00Surface.Stillheavysea.Useofweaponslimited.

22.00Proceedingsubmergedbecauseofweatherconditions.

01.31Surface.Heavyseas.Limitedvisibility.

02.15Boathovetobecauseofveryheavyseas.

Wednesday.Thewindshiftstothesoutheast.Itsstrengthhasincreasedagaintoeleven.“Veryheavyseasfromeasttosoutheast.Barometerfallingsharply.”Inthecontrolroomthenavigatorisbracedwithspreadlegsagainstthechart

table.AsItrytolookoverhisshoulderheglancesupmoodilyandgrowls,“Ten

dayswithnofixedbearing.Andthesecrazywavesandwindsmusthavepushedusmilesoffcourse.”

Thursday.Inthehalf-lightofdawnthenavigatordecidestotryhisluckoncemore.Visibilityhas infactsomewhat improved.Hereandthere theskyis tornopentorevealafewstars.Thehorizoncanbeglimpsedwhenit’snotbeingcutoff by the humps of wandering waves. Then it looks like a straight furrowinterruptedbylargehummocks.Butwhenever the navigator gets ready andhas located a known star, spray

comesshootingoverthebridgeandmakesthesextantunusable.Hehastohandtheinstrumentdowntothecontrolroomandwaitforittobedriedandhandedup again.After a quarter of an hour he gives up. “An inaccurate navigationalreadingisjustasbadasnoneatall!”hesaysasheclimbsdown.He’lltryagainatdusk.

Friday.“Ashittylife!”theChiefannouncesatbreakfast.“Our search methods,” I tell the Old Man, “remind me of certain fishing

techniquestheyuseinItaly.”Ipauseforeffectthewayhedoesaftertossingoutoneofhis lures.Notuntilhesays,“Really?”doIgoon.“I’veseenfishermenaround Venice let down huge square nets from the piers over a kind offrameworkofpoles.Theywaitawhileandthenhoistthenetsupbypulleys—inthehopethatsomefishorotherwillbedimwittedenoughtostickaround,”“ThatsoundslikecriticismoftheHighCommand!”theChiefbreaksin.“Clearcaseofunderminingmilitarydiscipline!” remarks theOldMan.And

theChiefannounces,“Whatweneedisbrainsintherightplaces.OutwiththoseclownsinHighCommandandlet’shaveyouontheStaff insteadtoget thingsdone!”“Andwe can install theChief in theNationalMuseum!” I’m able to shout

afterhimjustashedisappearsintothecontrolroom.

Saturday. It’ssixforty in themorningwhenavessel is reportedonourportquarter.Wind eight tonine, sea eight.Visibilitywretched. It’s remarkable thatthebridgewatchwasabletomaketheshipoutsosoonintheuniformlygraypeasoup.Probablyalonevesseltackingsharply.We’reinluck.We’reaheadofthisdarkshadowthatrisesmomentarilyfrom

behindafoamingseaandthendisappearsforlongminutesatastretchasthoughbymagic.“He probably thinks he’s traveling faster than he is.Can’t bemakingmore

thanfourteenknots!He’dhavetotakeahugetackinthewrongdirectiontogetaway from us,” says theOldMan. “Let’s edge up a little closer.He certainlycan’tseeusagainsttheclouds.”Notmore than tenminutesgobybefore theCommanderordersadive.The

torpedowatchissenttobattlestations.Engine-roomorders.Hydroplaneorders.Andthen,“Standbyforsingleshots,

tubesoneandthree!”HowistheCommandergoingtoattackinthissea?Beteverythingonasingle

cardisprobablyhisstrategynow—comehellorhighwaterhewantstoscore.TheCommanderhimselfgivesthefiringdatawithoutbetrayingtheslightest

excitement. “Enemy speed fourteen. Bearing one hundred. Distance threethousandfeet.”The First Watch Officer reports, “Tubes ready,” almost as casually. But

suddenlytheOldManburstsoutcursingandordersreducedspeed,probablytocutdownonperiscopevibration.Theperiscopemotorhumsandhums, stoppingonly forbrief intervals.The

OldMan isdoinghisbest tokeep the enemy in sightdespite thehighwaves.Apparentlyhe’snowextending theasparagusstalkstill farther. In thesewaveshe’s not runningmuch risk.Who aboard the steamer could conceivably guessthataU-boatmightattackinthischaos?Experienceandtheorybothteachthatin weather like this a U-boat can’t use its weapons. We tumble through thewaves.The Commander calms down. “Easily ten thousand tons. Has amurderous

cannon—aft.Goddamtheserainsqualls!”“No good,” we suddenly hear from the tower. “Surface!” The Chief reacts

quickly. The first heavywave that hits us hurlsme straight across the controlroom,butI’mabletocatchholdofthecharttableandkeepmyfooting.

TheCommandercallsmetothebridge.Low-hanging,dark-graycurtainsallaroundusover theragingsea.Notrace

ofthesteamer.Ithasdisappearedintherainsqualls.“Careful!”theOldManwarnsasabottle-greenwaverushestowardus.Whenit’sroaredby,heshoutsinmyface,“Theycouldn’tpossiblyhaveseen

us!”Heordersustopushoninthegeneraldirectionofthesteamer.Todothiswe

havetorunathighspeedagainstthewaves.Thewindlashesourfaces.Imanagetoendurethisforbarelytenminutesandthengobelowinagushofwater.TheChief has to bale every few minutes. “Senseless,” he announces shortly.“They’vegotawayafterall!”Despite the dousing spray I venture a sidelong glance into the tower.Little

Benjamin is at the helm.Agoodman—hehas to use every effort to keep theboatoncourse.EvenoutofsightoftherollingwavesIcanfeelthebowbeingconstantly forced off course. The hatch is sealed again. The only connectionfromthebridgetotheinterioristhespeakingtube.TheOldManordersusdownto listen.He’sdeterminednot togiveup.The

sonarshouldreachfartherthanoursight.Drippingwet,withlobster-redfaces,thebridgewatchcomesdown.Wedescendto130feet.Itgetsstillasdeathintheboat.Onlythebilgeslops

backandforth,fromthegroundswell.Allofusexceptthetwobridgelookoutssittingatthehydroplanecontrolshaveoureyesonthesoundman.Butnomatterhowdiligentlyheturnshiswheel—nothing!TheOldManorders,“Coursesixtydegrees!”Afterhalfanhourhehasussurfaceagain.Hashefinallygivenup?Igoon

deckwiththenavigator’swatch.TheCommanderremainsbelow.The kind of view we have of the stormy waves is usually reserved for

shipwreckedmen.Wemightaswellbeonaraft.“Bone-grinders,” roars thenavigator.“Watchout—a lookoutonaboatonce

That’sasfarashegetsbecausethereinfrontofusisawavepreparingtostrike.I brace myself diagonally against the bulwark, pressing my chin against mychest.Thewaterhasbarelygurgledawaywhen thenavigatorgoeson in thesame

hoarseshout.“…hehadthreeribsbroken—safetybelttore—hurledaft—straightontothemachinegun—luckyforhim!”

After theboathas takenon thenext threewaveshewhirlsaround, removesthestopperfromthespeakingtube,andshoutsdown,“TotheCommander:Nomorevisibility!”The Commander listens to reason. Another dive, another full sonar search,

Stillnothing.Is itworthwhile to peel off our dripping clothes?The hydroplane operators

haveevenkepton their sou’westers.Withinhalf anhour they’reproved right.TheCommanderhasussurfaceagain.“There’sonlyonechanceleft: Ifhemakesabigtack—amajoralterationin

course—it’lllosehimhisheadstart,”saystheOldMan.For a good half hour he sits still, frowning, his eyes half-closed. Then

somethingsuddenlybringshimtohisfeet.Hisabruptnessmakesmejump.Hemusthaveheardsomethingfromthebridge.Evenbeforethereportcomesthatthesteamer’sinsightagain,he’satthehatch.Alarmagain.Dive.WhenIgettothecontrolroomhe’ssittinginthetowerbehindtheperiscope

eyepiece.Iholdmybreath.WhentheragingsealetsupforamomentIhearhimcursingunderhisbreath.He’shavinghis troublesagain.Howcanhekeep thesteamerintheperiscopeformorethansecondsatatimeinanoceanlikethis?“Thereheis!”Thecryfromabovestartlesme.Westandfirmlybraced,waiting,butnothing

moreisheardfromabove.The OldMan bursts into loud curses because he can’t see anything. Then

orderstothehelmsman.Andnow—Ican’tbelievemyears—theOldManwantsbothE-motorsatfullspeed.Inthisweather?Another three or fourminutes, then, “Crash dive to two hundred feet!”We

stareatoneanother.Thecontrol-roommatelooksdumbfounded.Whatdoesthismean?It takes theOldMan to relieveouruncertainty;he climbsdown the ladder,

announcing,“Hardtobelieve—theysawus!Thescowturneddirectlyatus;theyweregoingtoramus.Whatanerve—andwhatadirtytrick.Incredible!”Hestrugglesforself-control,andloses.Furiouslyheslamsaglovedownon

thefloorplates.“Thisfilthyweather—thisgoddam…”Completelyoutofbreath,hesitsdownonthechartchestandsinksintoapatheticsilence.

I stand around, feeling embarrassed andhoping against hope thatwe’renotgoingtosurfaceagaintoosoon.

Sunday.We’reproceedingunderwater.Thecrewisprobablysecretlyprayingfor badvisibility; badvisibilitymeans stayingunder and stayingundermeanspeace.We have become haggard oldmen, half-starved Robinson Crusoes, though

there’snoshortageoffood.It’sjustthatnobodyhasthefaintestdesiretotouchthestuff.Theengineershavehadtheworstofit.Theynolongergetanyfreshairatall.

Formorethanfourteendaysnowit’sbeenimpossibletogoondeck.Admittedly,the Commander has permitted smoking in the tower, “under the spreadingchestnuttree,”butthefirstmanwhotriedtolightacigarettethereinstantlyhadhismatchblownout.Thedraftisimpossiblewhenthedieselsaresuckingairoutoftheboat.EvenFrenssen has becomemonosyllabic.The evening “uproar in the cable

locker,”thegabbleandsinginginthebowcompartment,havealsoceased.Onlythesoundroomandthehydroplanestationsareinaction.Thecontrol-

roommateandhistwoassistantsareonduty,alongwiththeE-motorpersonnel.Thehelmsmaninthetowerhastofightagainstfallingasleep.Oneofthemotorsishumming.I’velongsincegivenuptryingtofigureout

whichone.Theboat’smakingfiveknots,muchslowerthanabicycleriderandyetfasterthanwe’dbedoingonthesurface.Our lackofsuccessweighsheavilyon theOldMan,who’sgettingmoodier

eachday.Heneverwasall that loquacious,buthe’shardlyapproachableatallnow.You’dthinkfromhisdepressionthatthesuccessorfailureoftheentireU-boatcampaignwashisresponsibility.Thehumidityintheboatstillseemstobeworseningdaily.Avintage season formold: it’s already takenpossessionofmyspare shirts.

It’s different from the variety that produces such spectacular growth on thesausages:lessvirulent,itformsbigblackgreenstainsinstead.Theleatherofmysportsshoesisfilmedwithgreen,andthebunksreekofit.Theymustberotting

from the inside out. If I leave my seaboots off for a single day, they turngreenishgrayfrommoldandsalt.

Monday.UnlessI’mverymuchdeceived,thestormhasabatedalittle.“Perfectlynormal,”saystheOldManatbreakfast.“Noreasontorejoice.We

mayevenhavereachedafairlyquietzone—dependsifwe’vehittheeyeofthestorm. But ifwe have, it’s absolutely certain that thewhole performancewillstartupagainoncewehittheotherside.”Thewavesarejustastallasyesterday,butthebridgelookoutsarenolonger

being constantly whiplashed by flying spray. Now and again they can evenventuretousetheirbinoculars.

Tuesday. Ino longerhave to lookaroundforhandholdswhenever Iwant tocross the control room.We can even eatwithout table rails andwe no longerhave to brace the pots painstakingly between our knees. There’s a real meal:Navybaconwithpotatoesandbrusselssprouts.IcanfeelmyappetitereturningasIeat.Afterthechangeofthenightwatch,Idragmyselfoutofmybunk.Thecircle

oftheskyframedinthetowerhatchglowsbarelybrighterthantheblackrimofthehatch itself. Iwaitagood tenminutes in thecontrol roomproppedagainstthenavigator’stablebeforeasking,“Permissiontocomeonthebridge?”“Jawohl!”ThevoiceoftheSecondWatchOfficer.Bommschtjwumm—the waves are booming against the boat, the sounds

interspersedwithasharphissingandthenadullroar.Palebraidsoffoamgleamoneithersideandblendintothedarkness.The water shimmers green down the length of the boat, as if lit up from

within,makingasilhouetteoftheboat’shullagainstthedarkness.“Damn phosphorescence!” the Second Watch Officer growls. Moonlight

floodsdownbehindthescatteredbandsofmist.Nowandagainastarsparklesandisgone.“Black as hell,” mutters Dorian. Then shouts to the stern lookouts, “Look

alive,youmen!”

AsIclimbdownintothecontrolroomatabout23.00Iseetwocontrol-roommates at work over thewater distributor. On closer inspection, I see they aregratingpotatoes.“Whatintheworld?”Then the Old Man’s voice comes from behind me. “Potato pancakes, or

whateverthethingsarecalled.”Hetakesmewithhimintothegalley.Thereheasksforafryingpanandsome

fat. A seaman comes from the control room with a bowl of grated potatoes.Happyasaschoolboy,theCommanderletsthefatmeltinthefryingpan,whichheraisestoletthehissinglardrunfromsidetoside.Thenthemixtureisdroppedinfromaheight.Hotfatspattersontomytrousers.“Almosttimetolaunchthefirstone!”TheOldManwrinkleshisnose, inhales therisingaroma,strikesanattitude.Thegreatmomenthascome.Aflip,andthepancakefliesthroughtheair, performs a somersault and lands back in the pan again, perfectly flat, andgoldenbrown.Eachofus tearsapiece from the firstone that’sdoneandholds itbetween

baredteethuntilit’scooledalittle.“Neat,eh?”theCommanderasks.Cookiehastogetupoutofhisbunkandfetchbigcansofapplesauce.Graduallythefinishedpancakespileupintoarespectableheap.It’smidnight:

changeofwatchintheengineroom.ThedoorfliesopenandtheGigolocomesintothegalley,smearedwithoil.Disconcerted,hestaresattheCommanderandis about to rush on through, but the Commander shouts, “Halt! Stop!” TheGigolofreezesasthoughrivetedtothefloor.Now he’s commanded to close his eyes and open his mouth and the

Commanderstuffsinarolled-uppotatopancake,thensmearsaspoonfulofapplesauceontop.TheGigolo’schingetsalayeraswell.“Aboutface!Next!”Theprocedureisrepeatedsixtimes.Thewatchcomingondutygetsexactly

thesametreatment.Weeatsofastthatthepancakesaregoneinnotime.Alreadythebottomofthebowlisbare.“Nextbatchforthesailors!”It’soneo’clockbeforetheCommanderstretchesandrubsthesweatfromhis

facewiththesleeveofhisjacket.“Goahead,eatitup!”hesays,pushingthelastpancakemyway.

Wednesday.IntheafternoonIgoupwiththesecondwatch.Thewaveshavechanged completely.Nomoremountain ridges advancingwith long, unbrokenslopes to windward and abrupt declivities in the lee. The ordered phalanx ofwaves has given way to mad confusion; as far as the narrowed eye can seethroughtheblowingspray,thewaterylandscapeisinupheaval.Hugemassesofwaterarebeinghurledaloft ineverydirection,and thewaveshaveno linesatall. The windmust have raised a new groundswell over the old one, makingmountainousrollerscollidewithpowerfulcross-seas.Hardly anyvisibility.Nohorizon.Onlywateryvapor right beforeour eyes.

“Thesedamn seas!” thenavigatorgrowls.Theboat executes akindof reelingdance, starting and stumbling, wavering back and forth, unable to find anyrhythmatall.New torment. It’s turnedcoldagain.The icyblastsof thewindcutmywet

facelikeknives.

Thursday. The wind’s blowing from the northwest; the barometer’s stillfalling. I become obsessed with the crazy hope that it’s going to rain oil—adownpourofoiltosmooththeseas.TheCommander appears at dinner, lookingmorose.For a long time there’s

silence.Thenhesmileswithclenchedteeth.“Fourweeks!Notbadgoing!”We’vebeentakingthispoundingforagoodfourweeks.TheOldManstrikesthetablewithhisleftfist;hetakesadeepbreath,holds

it, finallyblows it outnoisily throughclosed lips, closeshis eyes, and letshisheadhangtooneside:apictureofresignation.Wesitaround,wallowinginourmisery.Thenavigatorreportsthatthehorizonisclearing,sothenorthwestwindmust

haveblownawaythelow-hangingcloudsandgivenusbackoursight.

Friday. The sea is a huge, green tattered quilt, shedding itswhite lining ateverytear.TheCommandertrieseverypossibletricktoprotecttheboatfromthe

waves—sealingthewatertightforecastle,blowingthedivingcells—butnothinghelps.Finallythereisnothingleftbuttoaltercourse.WithachingeyesIscanholes,trenches,folds,gullies,andchannelsoutinto

the distance—but there’s no darker spot—nothing! We no longer even thinkaboutaircraft.Whatplanecouldstayaloftinthisstorm?Whoseeyecouldspotusinthistumult?\Vearen’tevenleavingawake,sothere’snotrailtobetrayus.Oncemoreweshootintoavalleywhilethenextwaverisesdiagonallybehind

us.TheSecondWatchOfficerstaresatitbutdoesn’tduck—hejuststandstherestifflyasifsmittenwithlumbago.“Somethingthere…”Ihearhimroar,buttheseahasalreadyhitthetower.I

pressmychinagainstmychest,holdmybreath,bracemyself,becomeadeadweighttopreventthesuckingwhirlpoolfromdraggingmeoffmyfeet.Thenupwiththeheadagaintosearchtheheavingwaves.Onetroughaftertheother.Nothing.“There was something there!” the SecondWatch Officer shouts again. “At

twohundredsixtydegrees!”Hebawlsattheportlookoutaft:“Hey—you—seeanything?”Once again we are carried upward by a roaring elevator. I’m standing

shoulder to shoulderwith the SecondWatchOfficer, and there!A dark shapesuddenlyheavesupundertheblowingspray—nextmomentit’sgone.Abarrel?Andhowfaroff?TheSecondWatchOfficerpullsouttheplugandpressesthespeakingtubeto

hismouth. Ordering binoculars. The hatch is thrust open from below and theglasses handed out just in time to avoid the next flood. The Second WatchOfficerhastilykicksthehatchshut.Thebinocularsremainmoreorlessdry.Iduckdownbesidehimasheprotectstheglassesfromthespraywithhisleft

hand,waitingtenselyforthefloatingobjecttoriseagain.Butthere’snothingtobeseenexceptatumultofwhite-stripedhills.We’reinadeeptrough.Asweriseagain,wenarrowoureyes,trytoconcentrate.“Goddammit,dammit,dammit!”AbruptlytheSecondWatchOfficerclapsthe

glassestohiseyes.Istareathim.Suddenlyheroars,“There!”Nodoubtaboutit.He’sright:therewassomething!Andagain!Adarkshape.Itsoarsup,pausesforacoupleofheartbeats,andsinksoutofsightagain.

The Second Watch Officer puts the glasses down and shouts, “That wasactually…”“What?”The SecondWatch Officer bites off a syllable between his teeth. Then he

turnshisfacefullatmeandburstsout,“That—mustbe—asubmarine!”A submarine?That corkscrewing barrel a submarine?Am I hearing things?

Hemustbecrazy!“Firearecognitionrocket?”asksthebosun’smate.“No—not yet—wait a bit—not absolutely certain!” The Second Watch

Officerbendsover thespeakingtubeagain.“Leathercloths to thebridge!Andfast!”He hunches down behind the bulwark, like a harpooner on a whaling ship

preparingtostrike,andwaitsforustobeliftedupagain.Ifillmylungstotheirburstingpointandholdmybreath—asifthiswouldimprovemysightasIstareoutovertheboilingwaves.Nothing!The SecondWatch Officer hands me the binoculars. I brace myself like a

mountainclimberinarockchimneyandswingtheglassesthrough260degrees.Acircularsectionofgray-whitesea.Nothingmore.“There!” roars the Second Watch Officer and flings out his right hand. I

hastilyhandhimtheglasses.Hestaresdoggedlythenputstheglassesdown.Oneleapandhe’satthespeakingtube.“TotheCommander:submarineonourportquarter!”The SecondWatch Officer handsme the binoculars. I don’t dare lift them

becauseahugewaveisrisingastern.Iclingfastandtrytoprotectthemwithmybody,buttheswirlingfloodrisestomynavel.“Dammit!”Thegiganticwaveistakingusup.Iputtheglassestomyeyes,searchfortwo

tothreesecondsacrosstheragingwaterywaste—andthereIhaveit.Nodoubtaboutit:theSecondWatchOfficerisright.Aconningtower.Afewseconds,andit’sgonelikeaghost.As the wave drains away the hatch flies open. The Commander pushes

himselfupandgetsthedetailsfromtheSecondWatchOfficer.“You’reright!”hemuttersfromunderthebinoculars.

Then:“Theyaren’tdiving,arethey?Surelytheycan’tbe.Quick,bringupthesignallamp!”Thesecondspass,butdespitethreepairsofeyes,there’snothingmoretobe

seen.IcatchadistractedlookontheCommander’sface.Thenaspeckappearsinthelightgreenishgray—theup-endedbarrel!TheOldManordersanapproachwithbothengines.Whatdoesheintendto

do?Why isn’t he firing a recognition signal?Whyhasn’t the other boat?Cantheyhavemissedus?Spray and foam are dashing heavily across the bridge, but I push myself

higher.Analpineridgewithsnow-coveredsummitsisbearingdownonusfromastern. For a couple of heartbeats I’m petrified: The first giganticwave couldriseat thewrongmomentandbreakoverus.Then there’sasharphissing: It’srunningpast,undertheboat—butthenextinstantit’sthrownupahugewallinfrontofoureyes,ashighasahouse.Andthenextwavecutsusofffromastern.Suddenly the towerof theotherboatappears,highover the foamingcrests,

like a cork shot out of a bottle.The cork dances for awhile, then disappears.Minutespass,andthere’snothingtobeseen.TheSecondWatchOfficer is shouting—notwords, just an inarticulate roar.

TheCommanderraisesthehatchcoverandbellowsdown:“HowlongdoIhavetowaitforthatlamp?”It’s handed up. The Commander wedges himself between the periscope

housing and the bulwark and grips the lampwith both hands. I bracemyselfagainsthisthighstogivehimmoresupportandleverage.Icanalreadyhearhimpressing the key: dot—dot—dash. He stops. That’s it. I steal a quick glancearound.Theotherboatisgone;itmightaswellhavebeensuckedintoanabyss.Nothingtobeseenbutawaterygraywilderness.“Crazy!Absolutelycrazy!”IheartheCommandersay.Then,beforeIcanspotthetoweroftheotherboatagain,there’saflashinthe

heavinggray:Awhitesunglaresatusthroughtheflyingspray,goesout,glaresagain:dot—dash—dash. For a while, nothing; thenmore glare in the generalchaos.“That’sThomsen!”roarstheOldMan.Bracedatanangle,Ihangontohisleftthighwithallmystrength;theSecond

\VatchOfficer isnowbesideme,hangingonto theright.Our lampis inactionagain.TheCommanderissendingamessage,butIhavetokeepmyheaddown,

soIcan’tseewhathe’s tappingout.However,Icanhearhimdictatingloudly.“Maintain—course—and—speed—we—will—come—-closer…”Amountain of water greater than any we’ve seen is overtaking us.White

spindrift whirls from its crest in plumes like clouds of powdered snow. TheCommander hands down the lamp and quickly lowers himself, using ourshouldersforsupport.Mybreathiscutshort.Theroaringandhissingofthisfour-storywalldrowns

outthenoiseofalltheothers.Wepressourbacksagainsttheforwardbulwark.TheSecondWatchOfficerhashisforearminfrontofhisfaceforprotection,likeaboxer.No one has eyes for the other boat.We stare at this gigantic wave that is

approachinguswithunearthlydeliberation,heavyas lead, sloweddownby itsownmonstrousbulk.Onitsbackthefoamglintswickedly.Theneareritcomes,themoreitswells,risinghigherandagainhigherabovethegray-greentumult.Suddenlythewindceases.Littlewavessplashaimlesslyaroundtheboat.Thenitdawnsonme:Thisfatherofallwaveshasthrownupagreatbarrieragainstthestorm.Weareinitsleeagainstthewind.“Hold hard!—Watch out!—Duck!” roars the Commander at the top of his

voice.Ishrinkdownstillfarther,tenseeverymusclesoastoclampmyselfviselike

between the bulwark and the column of theTBT.My heart turns over. If thiswavebreaks—Godhelpus!Theboatwillnevergetoutfromunder.Allothersoundsarenowlostinasinglesharp,evilhissing.Forthespaceofa

fewoppressivemomentsIdon’tevenbreathe.ThenIfeeltheboatbeingheavedup fromastern;onandon it rises, transfixedat an angle against the crumpledridgesoftheslope,higherthaneverbefore.Thestrangleholdoffearisbeginningto relax itsgriponme—and then thecrestbreaks.Amonstrouscudgel strikesthetowerandmakesitring,sendingashudderthroughthewholeboat.Ihearashrill,gurglingwhine,andamaelstromofwatershootsswirlingintothebridge.Iclampmymouthshutandholdmybreath.There’sgreenglassinfrontofmy

eyes.ImakemyselfasheavyasIcansothatthesolidcurrentwon’ttearmeoffmy feet. God—are we going to drown? The whole bridge cockpit is full tooverflowing.Finally the tower tips sideways. I bob up and gulp for air, but at oncemy

breath is cut short. The bridge is heeling even farther. Can aU-boat capsize?

Whataboutourballastkeel?Canitwithstandthissortoffury?Thewhirlpool is trying to rip the clothes frommy body. I openmymouth

wide,breathehard,andpullfirstmyrightfootandthenmyleftoutofthevortex,as thoughout of a snare.Now I canventure to lookup.Our stern is vertical!QuicklyIturnmyheadfront,forcemybentkneestostraighten,allowmyselfaquickglanceoverthebulwark.IglimpsethefaceoftheSecondWatchOfficer:hismouthiswideopenandhelooksasifhe’syellingatthetopofhisvoice.Butnothingseemstobecomingout.Water drips from the Commander’s face. The rim of his sou’wester is

streaming like a roof gutter. Stiff and unmoved, he’s staring straight ahead. Ifollowthedirectionofhiseyes.Theother craftmustnowbeonourportbow.Suddenly itswhole length is

laidbare.Thesamewave that ranunderus is lifting itskyward.This takesnomore than amoment, then its bow is buried in a floodof foam. It looks as ifthey’dgone toseawithonlyhalfaboat.Acolumnofsprayshootsstraightupfrom their tower, like ocean rollers colliding with a cliff. They disappearcompletelyinthegrayspindrift.The SecondWatchOfficer roars something that sounds like “poor devils!”

Poor devils!Has he gonemad?Has he forgotten thatwe’re being shaken andthrownaroundinexactlythesameway?We swingaround farther.The anglebetweenour course and the runningof

theseagrowssteadilyless.Soonwe’llbeabletotakethewavesheadon.“Goodwork—oh,hell!”roarstheSecondWatchOfficer.“Ifonlythatbunch

—overthere—doesn’tgoandtry—somethingfancy!”Itooamafraidthattheywon’tbeabletoholdtheirboatoncourseinthissea.

Ourturningcirclequicklycarriesuscloser to them.Alreadythewavesthrownoffbytheirbow,whichisactinglikeasnowplow,arecollidingwiththechoppycross-currentstirredupbyourown.Sheetsofwatershootintotheair—dozensofgeysers,small,large,gigantic…Thenwe’reonourwayupagain.Aninsanewavesurgingoutof thedepths

like some fabled leviathan has taken us on its back. We rise—a SubmarineAscension—Kyrieeleison!As ifstruggling to freeourselves fromtheearthwesoar like a black zeppelin, higher and higher.Our foreship is right out of thewater.

ImightaswellbeontheroofofabuildingasIlookdownintothebridgeoftheotherboat—god!Hasn’ttheOldMancutittoofine?Wecouldbeslammeddownontopofthem!Butnocommandscome.Icannowrecognizeeachof thefivemenwhoare

bracingthemselvesagainstthestarboardbulwarkandstaringupatus.Thomsenisinthemiddle.They’re all gaping like thewooden dollswithmouths you try to pop cloth

ballsinto—orlikeabroodofnestlingswaitingfortheirmothertoreturn.Sothat’sthewayitlooks!That’showtheTommieswouldseeusiftheywere

aroundjustnow:abarrelwithfivemenlasheddowntightinside—ablackkernelin a patch of foam, a pit in the white flesh of a fruit. Only when the wavesubsidesdoestheimagechange—andasteeltubecomesrollingoutofthewater.Now the whale lets us slide sideways off his back, and we’re on our way

downagain.Downanddown.Mygod—whydoesn’ttheOldMandosomething?Icatchsightofhisface.He’sgrinning.Themaniaccangrinatatimelikethis.“Headsdown!”Quick,archyourbacklikeacat.Holdtight,kneesagainstthebulwark,back

againsttheperiscopehousing.Tenseyourmuscles.Tightenyourbelly.Thewall,thewall ofwater, bottle-green and heraldically decorated, rises before us likeHiroshige’sGreatWaveoffKanagawa.It becomes concave, curves toward us—get your headout of theway!Still

time to gasp a lungful of air and huddle up, press the binoculars against yourbelly—and thehammerstrikesagain.Holdyourbreath,count.Fightdown thechokingandgooncountingtillthetearingfloodrecedes.I’mamazed:ourterriblesidewaysslidedidn’thappenthistime.The Old Man—hardened skipper that he is—knew how the whale would

behave. He can sense what the water will do, predict the behaviors of seamonsters.Now it’s Thomsen’s turn to wobble on the crest of a mountainous wave,

pushedupwardbyagigantic fist.Peering through theglasses, I seehisdivingtanks come completely free, glistening brightly. The boat hangs there for aneternity—thenissuddenlyslungintothenextvalley.Atornwhitecombshootsup between us, and the others disappear as though they had never existed. AdozenheartbeatslaterandIstillseenothingbutgray-whiteboilingwaves,wind-

whippedmountainsofsnow.Theylookprimeval,havingswalloweduptheotherboat.To think that down there in thebelly of theother boat, in themidst of this

wilddance,there’sthewatchstandingbytheengines,theradiomancrouchinginhisshack,andmenbracedintheirbunksinthebowcompartmenttryingtoreadorsleep;lightsareburningdownthereandhumanbeingsarealive…Seehere, I tellmyself,you’reacting like theSecondWatchOfficer.You’re

completelyforgettingthatwe’retravelinginthesamesortofboat.Ourmenareputtingupwiththeverysametreatmentastheonesoverthere.The Commander calls for signal flags. Signal flags? He’s gone completely

nuts!Howcananyonesignalhere?Buthegraspsthemliketworelayrunners’batons,andaswehurtleupagain

toward the sky he quickly unsnaps his safety belt, braces himself against theperiscopehousing,highover thebulwark, andkeepinghimself firmlywedgedunrolls the hand flags; with complete composure, as though we were on anoutingontheWannsee,hesendshismessage:W-h-a-t-h-a-v-e-y-o-u-s-u-n-k.Hard to believe: amanon theother boat actuallymakes the arm signal for

“Understood.”Andaswe’rebeingsweptdownagainonourconveyorbelt,theotherlunaticovertheresignals:T-e-n-t-h-o-u-s-a-n-d-t-o-n-s.Likepeopleinthecarsoftwoferriswheelsturninginoppositedirections,we

exchangeinformationindeafanddumblanguagethroughtheflyingspray.Forsecondsatatimetheboatshanglevelwitheachother.AsweriseagaintheOldMangivestheotherboatonemoresignal:G-o-o-d-l-u-c-k-y-o-u-b-a-s-t-a-r-d-s.Theotherlothavenowgotouttheirflags.Wereadaloudinchorus:R-e-g-a-r-

d-s-b-r-o-k-e-n-m-a-s-t-s-a-n-d-s-h-r-o-u-d.s-t-o-y-o-u.Suddenly the wave lets us drop, and we are pitched downward at racing

speed.Heelingtothelimit,wesinkintoavalleyfilledwithspindrift.High above us the bow of the other boat is pushed free, way out over the

abyss;it’slefthanging—bothtorpedotubedoorsontheportsideclearlyvisible,as is every individual flood slit and the whole underwater hull—until theoverhangingforeshipdrives into thevalley likea fallingaxblade.Witha furythatcouldsplitsteelitslicesintothewave.Thewaterissuddenlyhurledasidetoleftandrightinhuge,glassy,greenmasses.Thewavesmeetoveritagain,coveritwithboilingeddies,andwashoverthebridge.Onlyafewdarkflecksremain

visibleintheragingfoam:theheadsofthebridgewatchandonearmwavingaredsignalflag.I intercept a dumbfounded glance from the Second Watch Officer to the

Commander,andthenIsee thefaceof theChief,distortedinecstasy;hemusthavebeenonthebridgeforsometime.I hug the periscope with one arm and hoist myself higher. The other boat

remains hidden astern in the trough of the waves. Then suddenly a barrel isthere, tossedhigh, thensunk;after that there’sonlyadancingcork,anda fewminuteslaternothingwhatever.TheOldManordersaresumptionofcourse.Upwiththetowerhatch—keep

youreyeonapassingwave—anddownthroughthegullet.The helmsman in the tower squeezesOut of theway, but the boat heels to

starboard,sohegetsadashofwaterjustthesame.“Whatwasgoingon?”“Metanotherboat—U-Thomsen—prettyclose!”Thehatchiskickedshutfromabove.Palefacesemergefromthedarknessas

ifpickedoutbyminers’lamps.We’reundergroundagain.Isuddenlyrealizethatnoteventhehelmsmansawwhatwasgoingon.I undomy sou’wester from undermy chin, laboriously pull offmy rubber

jacket.Thecontrol-roommateishangingonmyeveryword.ForbetterorworseIhavetothrowhimascraportwo—“HardtobelievethewaytileCommanderhandledher—honest—itwasamodelexercise!”Theexcitementseemstohaveloosenedmymuscles:Igetoutofmysoaking

clothesmuch faster than thedaybefore.Next tome theChief ismeticulouslydryinghimself.Tenminuteslaterwe’reassembledintheOfficers’Mess.I’m still wound up, but I try to behave casually: “Wasn’t that all rather

informal?”“Whatd’youmean?”theOldManasks.“Ourmeeting.”“Howso?”“Weren’twesupposedtofirearecognitionsignal?”“Ohgod,”saystheCommander.“Thattower—youcouldrecognizeitatfirst

glance! They’d have had a fit ifwe’d shot off a rocket. Itwould havemeant

they’dhavehadtoansweratonce,Andwhoknowswhetherthey’dhavehadtheshellsreadyinweatherlikethis?Wilygoaroundembarrassingourfriends?”And justbecauserecognitionsignalsarenever tobeused indoubtfulcases,

wegetroustedoutofourseatsacoupleof timesadaywhilesomeonefetchesthem!“Nogrumbling,saystheOldMan.“Amustisamust—regulations.’Tenminutes later he comes back tomy criticism. “Inweather like thiswe

don’t have to bother about the Tommies’ subs anyway. What would they belookingfor?AGermanconvoy?”

Saturday.Theexcitement isover.At lunchtimewesit tightlybracedaroundtile table and chew.The off-duty lookouts are gradually sinkmg into their oldlethargy.The meal is over before the OldMan finally opens his mouth. “They got

throughfast!”“They”mustmeanThomsen and his crew.TheOldMan is astonished that

Thomsenturnedupinourarea.“Afterall,heonlygotinashorttimebeforeweputtosea—andthedamage!”Gotthroughfast—thatmeansashorttimeindock.“TheC-in-C’sinahurrythesedays!”Shorteneddocktime—sketchierrepairs.Can’tallowthepatienttolieaboutin

bedinsteadofgettingbackonhisfeet.Nomoremalingering.AgoodquarterofanhourgoesbybeforetheOldMantalksagain.“There’s

somethingwrongabout this.Even ifwe’re supposed tobewellequippedwithboatsintheAtlantic,thatcan’tmeanmorethanadozen.AdozenboatsbetweenGreenland and tileAzores—andyetwe’re practically tripping over each otherhere.Something’snotquiteright!Ohwell—nothingtodowithme.”Nothing to do with him! Yet he racks his brains from dawn till dusk and

probably through the night as well, brooding over the obvious dilemma: toolargeafieldofoperations—toofewboats—nosupportingaircraft.“It’stimetheycameupwithsomething.”

When I wake up on the third morning after our meeting in the storm, themovementoftheboattellsmethatthesea’srunninglower.IclamberintomyoilskinsasfastasIcanandheadforthebridge.It’snotyet

fullylight.The horizon has been blown clean.Only an occasional crest breaks on the

highgroundswell.Thewavesarerunningalmostashighas inrecentdays,buttheirmotionisfarlessviolent—theboatisnolongerbeingshakenandjarred.Thewindissteady.Onceinawhile itmovesuneasilyafewpointsfromits

maindirection,whichisnorthwest.Itblowscold.

Towardmiddaythewinddropsalmostcompletely.Insteadofitshowlthereisonlyasubduedhissingandrustling.Thewilduproarstillechoesinmyearsandthe unaccustomed quietmakesme uncomfortable, almost as if the soundtrackhadstoppedinamovietheater.Thewavesarestillhigh,anendlesswhite-manedherdsweepingpasttheboat,solemn,awe-inspiring.For all their movement it’s hard to realize that the waves aren’t actually

advancing—thatthewholesurfaceoftheoceanisn’tspeedingpastus.Ihavetosummon up the image of a wheatfield waving in the wind in order to makemyself see that these enormousmasses ofwater are as anchored as thewheatstalks.“Rarely seenagroundswell this size,” says thenavigator. “Itmust stretcha

goodthousandmiles.”

We pick up a radio report from Flossmann: “Lone ship sunk with triplesalvo.”“He’llmakeadmiralyet,”saystheOldMan.Hesoundsmoredisgustedthan

envious.“UpthereintileDanishStrait.”TheOldMan’sbitternessfindsreliefinanoutburstofrage.“Theycan’tkeep

ushackingaroundlikethis—onnothingbutahunch!Thewholething’sfutile!”

For diversion I rearrange my tiny locker. Everything’s a mess: gray-blackspots ofmildew on allmy shirts, belt turned greenwithmold, allmy clothessmellingofdamp rot.Amarvel thatweourselveshaven’t decayed—graduallywatchedourlivingbodiesturnputrid.With some of us, admittedly, the process seems to have set in already.

Zorner’sfaceiscompletelydisfiguredbycrimsonboilswithyellowcores.Thecontrastwith his pasty complexionmakes the inflammation look all themoreevil.Tileseamenaretheworstoffbecausetheirconstantcontactwithsaltwaterkeepstheircutsandcarbunclesfromhealing.But the storm is over. Once again the bridge is a place where we can

recuperate.Nothingbreaksthecircleofthehorizon.Aflawlesslinewhereskyandwater

meetandmergeintoone.I perceive the sea as a great flat disk supporting a gray glass bell jar.

Whicheverwaywemove,thebellmoveswithus,sothatwealwaysremainatthecenterof thedisk. Its radius isonlysixteenmiles,so thedisk is thirty-twomilesindiameter—amerenothingcomparedtotheendlessAtlantic.

VIICONTACT

The firstmessageour radiomanpicksup today is a request forThomsen toreporthisposition.“Whereishenow?”IasktheOldMan.“He hasn’t reported,” the Old Man says. “And there’ve been two more

requestssincethen.”Imagesofdisaster:boatsunderaircraftattack,bombsexplodingaroundthem

likegiganticincandescentcauliflowers.I tell myself that Thomsen must have his own reasons for not replying.

Situations certainly exist in which even the briefest radio signal can be agiveaway.

Next morning at breakfast I inquire, as casually as I can, “Anything fromThomsen?”“No!”says theOldMan,andgoesonchewing,staringstolidlyahead.Must

bedamage to theantenna, I tellmyself.Or troublewith the transmitter.Radiomastcarriedaway,somethinglikethat.Herrmann comes in with the daybook. The Old Man reaches for it

impatiently,readsthesignals,signs,andsnapsthebookshut.Itakeitandhanditback.TheOldMansaysnothing.Recently there’ve been cases of boats being bombed so badly that they

couldn’tevengetoffadistresssignal.“Heshouldhavereportedlongago,”saystheOldMan.“Withouthavingtobe

asked.”

NextdaynomentionofThomsen.Thesubjectistaboo.Notheorizing,butit’seasytoseewhattheOldManthinks.Beforelong,Headquartersisgoingtobe

issuinganotherthree-starreport.Aroundmidday,justaslunchisabouttobeserved,there’sareportfromthe

control room. “To the Commander. Trails of smoke at one hundred fortydegrees!”TheCommanderisonhisfeetinaninstant.Werushafterhimintothecontrol

room.Onmyway, I grab a pair of binoculars from their hook and reach thebridgeclosebehindtheOldMan.“Where?”Thenavigatorpoints.“There,ontheportbeamundertherighthandbulgeof

thebigcumuluscloud—veryfaint.”No matter how hard I look, I can’t make anything out in the direction

indicated.Thenavigatorcertainlywouldn’tmistakeagalleonmadeofcloudforasmoketrail!Theareainquestionislikeacrowdedstageset,withscreenafterscreenofcloudcomingupoverthehorizoninarichdisplayofgrayandmauve.TheCommanderbendshishead to thebinoculars. Iwork thehorizonagain

inchbyinch,whileitdancesviolentlyinmyglasses.Nothingbutclose-packedclouds, and every single one of them potentially a trail of smoke. I strainmyeyesashardasIcan.Alreadythey’rewatering.Whatawitch’scauldron!Finally I spota thinpipe,a shadedarker than the

mauve-colored background and flaring out toward the top like a tuba. Closebesideitthesameshaperepeatsitselflikeareflection—alittledimmerandmoreblurredperhaps,butunmistakableallthesame.Andthere—awholerowoftinypinetrees,theirthintrunksreachingdownbelowthehorizon.TheCommanderlowershisglasses.“Convoy!Nodoubtaboutit.What’sourcourse?”“Twohundredfiftydegrees!”TheOldMandoesn’thesitateforasecond.“Steertwohundredthirty!”“Coursetwohundredthirtydegrees.”“Bothengineshalfspeedahead!”Heturnstothenavigator,whohaskepthiseyesgluedtohisglasses.“Dothey

seemtoberunningonasoutherlycourse,navigator?”“That’smyguess,”saysKriechbaum,stillstaringthroughhisglasses.“Got togetaheadof themfirstand findoutexactlywhere they’reheaded,”

saystheCommanderandordersthehelmsman“Porttendegrees!”Noexcitedoutburst.Nofeverofthehunt.Expressionlessfaces.

Wichmannistheonlyonetobetrayexcitement:Hewasthefirsttodiscoverthesmokeclouds.“Thirdwatch.Toldyouso.Leaveittothethirdwatch!”hemutterstohimself

with self-satisfaction from under his glasses. But when he notices out of thecornerofhiseyethattheCommanderhasheardhim,heblushesandfallssilent.Asyet, thetinypinetreestellusnothingabouttheships’course.Southwas

onlyanassumption.Theconvoymaybeheadingtowardtheboat.Oritmayjustaswell be going away. The shipswith their telltale plumes of smokemay bemovingbelowthehorizoninanydirectiononthecompassrose.Myglassesremainfixedonourtargetastheboatslowlyturnsunderme.“Rudderneutral!”Thehelmsmaninthetowernowbringsthehelmtomidshipposition.Theboatcontinuestoturn.“Howfarhassheswung?”askstheCommander.“Onehundredseventydegrees!”theanswercomesfrombelow.“Steeronehundredsixty-five!”Theturnoftheboatslackensuntilthetinypinesstandpreciselyoverourhow.

Squintingsuspiciously,theCommanderinspectstheskieswiththeirheavycoverofgrayclouds.Hetiltshisheadbackandpivotsalmostafullcircleonhisaxis.Pleasegod,noplanes!Areportfrombelow:“Lunchonthetable!”“Notime!Bringitup,”theCommanderordersgruffly.Theplatesareputonsmall fold-downseatsattached to thebridgebulwark.

Thefoodjustsitsthere.Noonetouchesit.TheCommanderasksthenavigatorwhattimetilemoonsets.Sohe’sgoingto

waituntilnightfallbeforeattacking.Fortiletimebeingthere’snothingforustodobutstayalertandkeepcontact—comehellorhighwater—so thatotherU-boatscanbebroughtup.The smoke clouds gradually push their way higher above the horizon and

moveslightlytostarboard.“Ithinkthey’reshiftingtotheright!”saysthenavigator.“A returning convoy,” the Commander agrees. “Probably sailing in ballast.

Toobad,really.Oneheadedeastwouldhavebeenbetter.”

“Twelvemastheadsvisiblealready,”Wichmannreports.“That’ll do for the time being,” the Commander retorts and shouts below,

“Helmsman,what’sourcourse?”“Onehundredsixty-fivedegrees!”The Commander starts muttering calculations. “Convoy bearing twenty

degrees to starboard—so its true course is one hundred eighty-five degrees.Distance?Probablyaverage-sizedsteamers—meansaboutsixteenmiles.”Ourwakebubbleslikelemonsoda.Littlewhitecloudslikeburstsofshrapnel

areblowingaimlesslyacross thesky.Theboatchargesaheadthroughtilegraysea,wet-muzzled,slavering.“Probably close enough now—won’t slip through our fingers!” says the

Commander.Andimmediatelyqualifieshisstatement.“Providednothinggetsintheway.”And to thehelmsman:“Harda-starboard!Course twohundred fifty-fivedegrees!”Slowlythesmokecloudsswingoveruntilthey’reonourportbeam.Tileboat

isnowrunningonacourseweassumeisparalleltotheconvoy.TheCommanderlowershisglassesfornomorethansecondsatatime.Now

and again he murmurs something. I hear snatches. “Never get it… just theway…youwantit…They’regoingthewrongway.”So:afullyladenconvoyheadedforEnglandwouldbebetter.Notjustbecause

thecargowouldbe lost,but alsobecausechasinganeastboundconvoywouldbring us closer to home. The enormous consumption of fuel at high speed isworryingtheOldMan.Ifthepursuitweretobringusnearertohomebase,oursituationwouldlookalotbetter.“Fuel?” I hear tile navigator say. Ordinarily he avoids the word like an

obscenity.TheCommanderresemblesapolicedetectiveasheconferswithhiminwhispers.FinallytileChiefissummoned.He’slookingbleak.“Haveeverythingdouble-checked,”theOldManorders,andtheChiefnimbly

disappearsbelow.ItmustbeagoodhalfhouruntiltheCommanderordersbothenginesrunat

fullspeed.Hewantstobefarenoughaheadoftheconvoybeforetwilight.Theboomingof theengines soarsuntil the repeated firingof the individual

cylindersblendsintoasinglerumblingroar.Sprayshootsoutoftheslitsinthegrating and comes flying at us like shaving lather.Thebowwave is suddenlyhuge.

TheChiefpromptlyreappears.Worriedaboutfuel.“Suppliesareprettylow,HerrKaleun!”ishissepulchralwarning.“Wecan’t

keepthisupformorethanthreehoursatmost!”“How much d’vou reckon we’ll need if we really crawl home?” the

Commanderaskscasually.TheChiefleansoverandcupshishandsaroundhismouth,likeamanlightingacigaretteinthewind,soIcan’thearhisanswer.Inanycase,hehashisfiguresallready.About a thumb’s breadth above the horizon the ragged, brownish balls of

smokegraduallycoalesceintoanoily,ochre-brownbankofmist.Themastheadsbeneathlooklikeslowly-sproutingbeardstubble.The OldMan puts his binoculars down, pushes the leather shield over the

lenses,and turns to theFirstWatchOfficer,whoatsomepointhas takenover.“Undernocircumstancesallowthosemastheadstoriseanyhigherthantheyarenow!”Thenhedisappears through the towerhatch.Notquiteasagilelyas theChief,Isee.Iclimbdownbehindhim.Downinthecontrolroom,thenavigatorhascopiedallourmaneuversontoa

largesheetofgraphpaper.He’sjustenteringanewbearingfor theenemyandcorrectingthedistance.“Giveithere!”theCommanderinterrupts.“Sothat’swhereheisrightnow!

Looksall right.”And, turning tome,“Hisexactcoursewillgraduallybecomeclearfromthegraphsinthenextfewhours.”Butthere’sanurgentundertoneinhisvoiceashesaystothenavigator,“Unfoldthebigchartsowecanseewherehe’s coming from.” Bending over it, he carries on a kind of monologue.“ComingfromtheNorthChannel!What’shisover-allcourselikelytobe?Well,we’llsoonhave thatHelayshisprotractorbetweenthepositionof theconvoyandtheNorthChannelandreadsofftheangle.“Twohundredfiftydegrees,moreor less!” He thinks for a moment. “But they can’t have steered that coursestraight through. They have to have made a long detour north to outflanksuspectedU-boatpatrols.Didn’tdothemmuchgood…that’sthewayitgoes!”Thedroningroarofthetwodieselsfillseverycreviceoftheboat.Itworkson

uslikeatonic:weholdourheadshigheragain—ourbodiesaresuddenlymoresupple.Mypulseseemstobeatfaster.The Old Man has changed most conspicuously of all. He looks relaxed,

almostcheerful,andnowandagainthecornersofhismouthcurlinasmile.Theengines are running flat out and already theworld looks rosy—as if all we’d

beenlongingforwastohearthemuffledroaringthrobofthedieselsagain.Forawhilenoonespeaks.ThentheCommandersays,“Inanycase,wecan’topenupbeforedark.Theymayhavesomesurprisesuptheirsleeve.”Beforedark—it’shourstillthen.

Icanonlystandbeinginmybunkforaquarterofanhour.Igetuptoseehowthingsaregoingintheengineroom,astern.Theafterhatchwon’topen.Ihavetousethewholeweightofmybodytoovercomethesuctionoftheracingengines.Thenoiseislikeaboxontheears.Mouthandeyesopenwide.Thepushrodsonthesidesofthedieselsarevisibleonlyasawavingblur.Theneedlesonthedialsof themanometers jerk feverishlybackand forth.Oil fumes fill the room likethickfog.Johannisonduty.Frenssen’s there too.Hegivesabroadgrinwhenhesees

me—that usual look of weariness is gone. His eyes are proud. Everything inorder.Nowwe’llseewhathistwodieselsarecapableof!Johann is rubbingblackoil fromhishandswithcoloredcottonwaste. It’sa

wonderhehasn’tgonedeaf inhere.But this infernal roar isprobably like therustling of trees in a forest to him.He brings hismouth close tomy ear andbellows,“What’sup?”Iroarbackrightinhisear.“Pro—ceedingagainst—a—convoy.Waiting—till

—dark!” The chief mechanic blinks twice, nods, and turns back to hismanometers.Ittakesmeseveralsecondstorealizethatthemenhereinthesterndon’tevenknowwhywe’rerunningatfullspeed.Thebridgeisfaraway.Whenyou’re standing here on the iron grids, the world beyond the hatch ceases toexist.Theengine telegraph, thesignal lights, thepublic-addresssystemare theonly connectionswith theoutside. If theOldMandoesn’t see fit to announceover the loudspeaker why we’re changing speed, no one here knows what’sgoingon.Once again, as always happens when I set foot in the engine room, the

uniform rumble of the explosions takes possession of me completely. I’mstunned, and immediately assailed by lurid visions. Obsessive, tormentingimages:theengineroomsofgreatships—targetsforourtorpedoes!Hugehallswith high- and low-pressure turbines, heavily insulated pipelines under greatpressure, highly vulnerable boilers, driving shafts, and the many auxiliary

engines. No partitions. If they take a hit, they fill quicker than any othercompartmentof theship,andwithafloodedengineroom,noshipcanbekeptafloat.A series of pictures rushes through my mind. A hit amidships triggers the

chainreaction:theboilersexplode,releasinghigh-pressuresteam,andpipelinesaretornapart;theshipimmediatelylosespower;thesilverygleamingironstairs,sonarrowthere’sonlyroomforonemanatatime—buteveryoneisfightingatonce,tryingtofindawayuptheminthedark,throughthesearingsteam,towardthedeck.What a job! Working in the engine room ten feet below the water line,

knowingthatatanysecondatorpedomaytearopentheship’ssidewithouttheslightestwarning!Howoftenwhileonconvoy themenmustmeasure the thinplatesthatdividethemfromthesea.Howoftentheymustsurreptitiouslytryoutthequickestroutetothedeck,alwayswiththetasteofpanicintheirmouths,andin their ears the rending scream of iron, the blast of the explosion, and theroaring inrush of the sea.Not one second’s feeling of security.Always scaredshitless,alwayswaitingfortheclangingofthealarmbell.Ahelloffear—three,fourweeksatastretch.On the tankers it’s even worse. A torpedo amidships and the boat rapidly

becomes a single flaming inferno. Every square foot white hot from bow tostern.Ifthecompressedgasesexplode,theshipblowsupinabelchoffireandsmoke—agigantictorch.Something flickers in Johann’s face, jerkingme out ofmy nightmares.His

expression of watchful concentration remains for a moment, then dissolves:everything in order. The door to themotor room is standing open.Oil-heavy,hothouse warmth fills the compartment. The motor is turning over withoutcharging. A quick beat indicates that the air-compressors are working.Rademacher is engaged at themoment in feeling the temperature of the shaftbearings.Zörner theE-stoker is sittingon apile of oilskins, reading.He’s tooimmersedtonoticemelookingoverhisshoulder:

The Junker was holding the woman in his arms, bending herbackwardsothat thelight fellonherfaceinitscircleofblackcurls;heencounteredalookoffiercechallenge,suchashefeltonhisown faceburningdownonher,as thougheachof themwas seeking assurance that her surrender would sweep them

evermore fiercely to the very end, to a roaring destruction, areturn to that darkness fromwhich they had emerged into thesinging, golden hail of a life menaced on all sides, and theterrible futilityof their fleetingmoments together.TheJunker'sfeatures were frozen in a threatening and paralyzing mask ofoverweaningpower, thentheyslowlyandpainfullyrelaxedandhe stammered into the roaring stillness, as if his tongue werereluctanttoobeyhim,thathewishedtokillher…

Thebridgeisalongwayoff.IhavetofeelmywaybackintorealityalonganAriadne’s thread. As I let the hatch slam against its frame, the noise of thediesels is cut short as at the stroke of a knife, but in my skull the dull roarcontinues.Ishakemyhead,butsomeminutesgobybeforeIcansilencethedullthrumminginbothears.“Theymusthaveaprettycomplicatedtackingsystem,”theOldMansaysto

mewhenI’monthebridgeagain.“Astonishing how theymanage it. They don’t just run their general course

withatouchofroutinetackingthrownin.Nothingsosimple.Theybuildallsortsof deviations into the system to stopusgetting thehangof it tooquickly. It’sdriving the navigator crazy. Right now he’s working nonstop, poor bastard:presumedenemycourse,ourcourse,collisioncourse.Itcan’tbeeasy,keepingacircuslikethatgoing!”IttakesmeafewsecondstorealizethatthislastsentencenolongerreferstoournavigatorbuttotheEnglishconvoycommander.“Itusedto be that they only altered course in regular tacks; never took us long to seewhattheirover-allintentionwas.Butrecentlythey’velearnedtomakelifetoughforus,thebastards.Well,wealldothebestwecan.Mustbeafascinatingjob,convoy commander.Keeping a herd of sheep like that together straight acrosstheAtlantic,alwaysonthealert…”Nowwehavebecomethecontactboat.Wemustsee to it thatwe’reneither

drivenoffnorforcedtosubmerge.Wehavetobeaspersistentasourship’sfly.If you strike at her andmiss, she immediately sits down again in exactly thesame place. The fly—the symbol of persistence, and so a genuine heraldicanimal.Whydon’tanyofushaveoneinourconningtower?Commandershavehadwildboarsandsnortingbullspaintedon,butnoonehasyethituponthefly.Ought topropose it to theOldMansometime:abigflyon the tower!Only

not right now. Hands jammed deep in his trouser pockets, he’s doing his

lumberingdancearoundtheopenhatch.Abridgelookoutventuresabewilderedglance. Immediately theOldMansnapsathim.“What’reyoudoingwithyoureyes,sailor?”I’venever seenhim like thisbefore.Hekeepsslamming the towerbulwark

withhisfist,aregulardrumroll,untilthebridgeresoundswithit.Thenheroars,“Navigator,havetohavetheradiomessageready.I’lltakeanotherquickbearingsowecangivethemanaccurategeneralcoursereport.”Thedirectionfinderisbroughtontothebridge.TheCommanderplacesiton

the bridge compass, takes a bearing on the smoke trails, and reads off thedegrees. Then he calls down, “Navigator: True bearing one hundred fifty-fivedegrees—distancefourteenmiles!”After a while the navigator reports, “Convoy course two hundred forty

degrees!”“Well,justaswesuspected,”theCommandersaystohimselfandnodsatme,

thencallsbelow:“Canyoumakeanyestimateofspeed?”The navigator’s face appears in the hatch. “Between seven point five and

eightpointfiveknots,HerrKaleun!”Hardly aminute passes before a slipwith the radiomessage is handed up.

“ConvoyinSquareAXthreehundredfifty-six,coursetwohundredfortydegrees—speedabouteightknots—UA.”TheOldMansignstheradiomessagewithastumpofapencilandhandsitdownagain.TheChiefcomesondeck, lookingworried,andpeersupat theCommander

likeakickeddog.“Hereyouareagain!”TheCommander’s trying toheadhimoff. “Whoever

wantstoplayhastopay!Orarethereanyseriousproblems?”“Notonaccountofthediesels,HerrKaleun!Onlythevoyagehome.”“Ach,Chief, stopyourDoomsdaynonsense!Praise theLordandkeepyour

powderdry.Ordon’tyoubelieveintheLordGod,FatherofHeavenandEarth?She’srunningpretty,isn’tshe?”Once theChief has disappeared, however, theCommander does start doing

somecalculationswiththenavigator.“Whenwillitbedark?”“At19.00.”“Sowewon’t have to run full speed verymuch longer.At leastwe’ve got

enoughforthefirstattack!Afterthatwe’llhavetodrawonthesecretreserves

thatTheirHighnessestheChiefsliketokeepsquirreledaway.”Thesmokecloudsnowlooklikecaptiveballoonsonshortstrings,stretched

outalongthehorizon.Icountfifteen.With forced indifference the Commander says, “We’d better give some

thought to theirprotectivescreen.Edgeupabitcloser. Itcouldbeveryusefultonighttoknowwhatkindofescortswehavetoreckonwith.”TheFirstWatchOfficerimmediatelyshiftscoursetwopointstoport.Number

One,who has charge of the forward starboard section,mutters audibly, “Thistimewe’reaboutdueforsomething…”The Commander really cuts him short. “Careful, gentlemen! Anything can

happenbetweennowanddusk!”Taking the dim view. But I’m convinced that down deep the Old Man is

absolutelyconfident.Theoldsuperstition:don’tjinxtheattack.

TheC-in-C’sradiogramsrevealthatfiveboatsinallhavealreadybeenturnedlooseontheconvoy.Five—that’sarealpack.Oneofthem,aswediscoverfromhispositionreport,arrivedduringthenight.It’sFlechsig—andhe’stothewestofus.

TheFirstWatchOfficerissittingintheOfficers’Mess,andit’sclearthathe’snervous.Iseehimmovinghislipsnoiselessly.Probablymemorizinghis“prayerbeforebattle,”thewordsofcommandforfiringthetorpedoes.Sincenoenemycamewithintorpedorangeonhislastpatrol,thisishisfirstattack.Inanyevent,we’resafefromhistypewriterforthetimebeing.I bump into the Chief in the control room. Hemay be looking quite self-

possessed,buthe’sonhotbricks.IwatchhimsilentlybutwithameaningfulgrinuntilheinquiresfuriouslywhatIfindsointeresting.“Come,come,”saystheOldMan,suddenlybobbingupoutofnowhere.“Let’shopethegasexhaustpipesholdup,”saystheChief.“There’sdamage

intheonefromtheportdiesel.”

It’sonlyafewhourssinceJohannwastellingmeastory.“WewerekeepingcontactonceonUZ,whenthedieselexhaustpipesbroke.God,whatashambles!Alltheexhaustgaswasventingintothedieselcompartment.Couldn’tseeyourhandinfrontofyourface.Hadtogetthehelloutofthereandcomebackwithescapegear.Twoofthestokerskeeledoveronus.Hadtoberelieved.TheOldManhimselfcamedown.Questionwas:Giveupandletthescowsgoorputupwiththegasuntilweattacked?Itwastouchandgo—forthreewholehours!Thewallswerecompletelyblackandwelookedlikeniggers.”TheChiefgetsrestless.Hedisappearsaftwithoutaword.Fiveminuteslater

he’sbackagain.“Well,howdoesitlook?”“Commeci,commeça,”ishissibyllinereply.The Commander is busy at the chart table and seems to be paying no

attention.The radioman comes in with the daybook to be signed.Whichmeans two

morehourshavegoneby.“Ournewspaper,”saystheOldMan.“AmessageforMerkel,nothingspecial,

simplyanordertoreporthisposition.Hesailedthesamedaywedid.”ThefactthatoldMerkel,aliasCatastropheMerkel,isstillaliveamazesusall.

HisFirstWatchOfficerhadtoldmewhathegotawaywithduringhislastpatrolwhenhemetatankerinanunusuallyheavysea.“Thetankerhadbadluck.Shealteredcourseandranstraightinfrontofoursights.Theseawasrunningsohighthatwe couldn’t get her inourperiscope.Wehad to close right in so that thetankercouldn’ttakeevasiveactionafterwefiredourtorpedoes.Merkelorderedasingleshot,tubethree.Weheardthedetonationasithit,immediatelyfollowedbyanotherone.TheChiefdidallhecouldtokeepusatperiscopedepth,butwestill couldn’t get a glimpse of the tanker. Itwasminutes before the periscopecame clear and when it did—there was the side of tanker looming over us.They’dcircled.Toolatetogetaway.Theyrammeduswhenwewereonlyfiftyfeetdown.Bothperiscopesintheashcan,butthepressurehullheld—amazing!It really was a matter of inches. We couldn’t surface: our tower hatch wascompletely jammedshut from the impactof thecollision.Notverypleasant ifyou can’t look around, let alone get out. Disagreeable feeling. Eventually wemadeitthroughthegalleyhatchandopenedthetowerhatchfromoutsidewithahammerandchisel.Butwewereinnoshapeforemergencydives…”

AtthetimenoonedaredaskMerkelhowhehadmanagedtomakehiswayback two thousandmiles tobasewithhis towersmashedupandhisperiscopegone.ButMerkel’shairwasgraybeforethatanyway.

WhileI’mtryingtogetmycamerasreadyinthepettyofficers’compartment,Irunintoanoisyconversationamongtheinhabitants.Despite theclosenessoftheconvoy,they’rebackonsubjectnumberone.“Youreallyshould’veseenhislastladyfriend.Bornin1870.Firstyouhadto

sweepthecobwebsoutoftheway…”Zeitleremitsadeafeningbelchthatcomesfromthepitofhisstomach.“Long-distancerecord!”saysPilgrimapplaudingly.I take refuge in thebowcompartment.Theoff-duty lookouts, fiveor sixof

them,aresittingunder theswayinghammocksonthefloorplates,somecross-legged,somesprawledout.Alltheyneedisasmallcampfire.I’mbesieged.“Well,howdoesitlook?”“Everythingseemstobegoingaccordingtoschedule.”TheGigoloisstirringhisteacupwithagreasyknife.“Godawfulbouillon,”Ariogrins,“butnourishing.”The bridge johnny comes in and pretends amazement. “What kind of a

campsiteisthissupposedtobe?”Thenhetriestofindaplaceinthecircle,andAriopromptlyloseshistemper.

“Don’tbesocoolaboutwalkingoffwithmybreadandbutter!Youdidthesamethingyesterday.NexttimeI’mgoingtobashyourheadin!”The bridge johnny helps himself to another slice of bread, settles himself

comfortably,andaddressesthecompanyatlarge.“Letmetellyoualittlesecret—you’reallsimple-mindedswine.”Nobodytakesthisamiss.

Tensionkeepsmeon themove.Back in thepettyofficers’quarters Ihardlyneedtolistentoknowwhatthey’retalkingabout.Zeitlerhasthefloor.“WehadthesamesortofapigonboardwhenIwaswiththeminesweepers.”

“If by any chance the pig you’re talking about isme, you’re about due foraccidentcompensation!”Frenssenannounces.“Andfast.”“Bullshit,youheinie!Who’stalkingaboutyou?”“IftheshoefitsPilgrimpipesup.Itakealookaroundtheroom.Rademacherhaspulledhiscurtainshut.Zeitler

seems tobe actingoffended; apparentlyhe’s imitatingFrenssen,waiting tobespokento.Thedoortothegalleyopens.Theonebeyond,leadingtotheengineroom,is

alsoopen.Thenoisefromthedieselsdrownsallconversation.“Tenminutestilltime!”Ihearavoicecall.Confusion,complaints,curses:gettingreadytochangetheengine-roomwatch.Itmustbe18.00now.Backontothebridge.Twilightsoon.Darkcloudshavecomeupundergray

skies.Thesuckingroaroftheintakenozzlesforthesuperchargersonbothsidesof

thebridgesilencesthediesels.“Iwouldn’tcaretobetheirconvoycommanderwhenourpackhits,”theOld

Mansaysinaloudvoicefromunderhisbinoculars.“They’regoingatacrawl!Afterall,theycan’tmoveanyfasterthenthesloweststeamer.Andnochancetomaneuver.Someof the captains are bound to be real dummies—and trying tofollowafixedtackingsystemwithamoblikethat—ohmygod!They’reallusedtosteeringstraightahead,andtohellwiththeregulationsforavoidingcollisionsatsea…”Afterawhilehebeginsagain.“Anyonewhoshipsononeof thosegasoline

tankers must be either superhuman—or subnormal. Spending weeks on endcrawlingalongwithashipfulofgasoline, justwaitingfor the torpedoestohit!Nothankyou!”For a good while he stares silently through his glasses. “They’re tough

fellows,”hegrowlseventually.“Iheardaboutonemanwho’dbeenfishedoutofthedrink for the fourth timeby thecrewofadestroyer.He’dbeensunk threetimes,rescuedthreetimes,andheshippedoutagainforthefourth—that’sreallysomething.Ofcourse,theygetlotsofcash—loveofcountryplusafatpaycheck—maybe that’s the bestmixof soil for breedingheroes.”Thenhe adds dryly,“Sometimestheboozeisenough.”Theloopantennahasbeenupforsometime.We’renowsendingdirectional

signals for the other boats in the area. The flag pushers at Command

Headquarters in Kernével are also getting short signals sent out at hourlyintervals, prearranged combinations of letters fromwhich they can deduce alltheyneed toknowabout theconvoy:position,course,speed,numberofships,escort system, our own fuel situation, and even the weather. Our changes incourse allow them to form a picture of the convoy’s movement too. We areforbiddentoattackuntilmoreboatshavebeenbroughtup.

Themoodintheboathaschanged.It’sremarkablyquietinthecompartments.Theexcitementseemstohavesubsided.Mostofthemenarelyingdown,tryingtogetsomesleepduringtheselastfewhoursbeforeweattack.In the control room all systems have long since been made ready, the

connectionstestedagainandagain.Nowthere’snothingfurtherforthecontrol-roommatestodo.OneofthemisworkingonacrosswordpuzzleandasksmewhetherIknowacityinFrancethatbeginswithLy—”“Lyon.”“Thanks.Perfect.”TheChiefappearsfromaft.“Well,howdothingslook?”heasks.“Good,asfarasIcantell.”TheChiefseemstohavenopressingproblemsasidefromhisconcernabout

fuel.Hehasweasledhiswayaroundtheboattohisownsatisfaction,sohesitsdownonthechartchesttochatforabit.“Looksasifallthatcalculating’spaidoff:I’dstoppedbelievinginit.Deargod,theshittytimeswehavetoputupwithnowadays!Usedtobeveni,vidi,vici:Intheolddaysyoucouldtakeapositionrightoncourseandsitthereuntilsomeonecamealong.NowTheirHighnessesmakethemselvesscarce—quiteright,ofcourse,fromtheirpointofview.”19.00. The optical system for the night direction-finder lies ready in the

controlroomwiththreemenbustlingaroundit:Thetorpedo-firingmechanismisbeinginspected.I’mvaguelyawareofsomeonesaying,“Awholestringoftubs—wehave to

getsomeofthem!”Uponthebridgeagain.Nowit’s19.30hours.Alltheofficersareassembled

exceptfortheapprenticeengineer.TheChiefissittingontheTBTcolumnlikeahunterinhistreeblind.Ourcourseis180degrees.Behindthetrailsofsmokethe

skyhasseparatedintoblood-redhorizontalstripes.Itlookslikeahugemarquee.Thesunhassunkawaybehindtheclouds.Theredfadesslowlyintoapalesilkygreen.A few cloudswith tattered edges drift close to the horizon, still tingedwiththeafterglow.Movingslowly,bathedandfleckedwithrose,theylooklikesome exotic species of fantailed goldfish. Their scales catch the light, sparkleand gleam, then fade again. Dark patches suddenly appear on them likefingerprints.Night isnowrisingintheeast.Stretchafterstretchof theskyisoverrunby

thedarknesswehavebeenawaitingsoeagerly.“Navigator,writedown:19.30hours—twilight—horizonsomewhatcloser—

convoy formation clearly discernible in four columns—intend to attack bynight.’Thatwaywehavesomethingreadyforthewarlog.”The Old Man gives an order to the engine room. The roar of the diesels

immediately fades and falters.Back to the soundof that interminable friggingaround.Thewhitemaneofourwakecollapsesandturnsintoabrightgreentrailbehindus.Now we’re far enough ahead of the convoy. The idea is that despite the

rapidlydecreasingvisibilityweshouldhavetimetoregistertheireverychangeofcourseandadjustourownaccordinglysoastokeepthesuperstructuresofthesteamerslowonthehorizon.The sky is already hung with the chalky-white disk of the moon, which

graduallybeginstoglow.“May take a while yet,” the Old Man says to me. He’s hardly finished

speaking when the stern starboard lookout reports, “Masthead astern!” Ourglasses all swing in the samedirection. I findnothing. “Goddammit!” theOldManmutters.I glance sideways to see where his glasses are pointing. Then I aim my

binocularsatthehorizonandmovethemslowlyalongittotheleft,tryingtofindhis angle. The horizon is barely distinguishable from the evening sky. I keepsearching—there! A real mast! Hair-thin! No plume of smoke—has to be anescortvessel.Corvette?Destroyer?Asweepermakingitsbigeveningswingtocleartheneighborhoodbeforenightfall?Havetheyspottedusalready?Theyalwayshavetheirbestmeninthecrow’s

nest!

Anyway,theyhaveusstraightinfrontoftheminthewest,whereit’snowhereneardarkenoughyet.We’resilhouettedmuchtooclearlyagainstthehorizon.Why doesn’t the Old Man take action? He’s crouching like a harpooner

waitingbehindhiscannonforthewhaletoblowagain.Withoutputtingdownhisglassesheorders“Bothenginesfullahead!”Nohydroplaneorders.Noordertodive.Theblowersroar.Theboatleapsforward.Mygod,thisseethingwhitewake

isboundtobetrayustotheTommies!Ourhullofcourseiscamouflagedgray,but thewhite trail and thebluecloudof exhaustgasover it…Thediesels arenowpouringoutasmanyfumesasadefectivetractor.Blottedoutbythisthickbanner of gas, the horizon disappears completely astern, together with theneedle-thinmast.Ican’tseewhetherit’sgrowingtallerorshrinking.Ifwecan’tseehim,Ithink,perhapshecan’tseeuseither.Thenoiseofthedieselsisinfernal.They’rereallyeatingintotheChief’sfuel

supply.TheChief,Inotice,hasdisappearedfromthebridge.TheOldMankeepshis

glasses pointed astern.Wehaven’t varied fromour course by somuch as onedegree.Thenavigatorisstaringoffalongwithhim.Afterawhile theOldManordersbothdiesels slowspeedahead.Thewake

dwindles.Graduallythebluehazelifts.IntentlytheOldManandthenavigatorsearchthehorizon.Idothesame,inchbyinch.Nothing.“Hm,” says the Old Man. The navigator is silent. He’s got his binoculars

balanced between outstretched thumbs and middle fingers. Finally he says,“Nothing,HerrKaleun!”“Haveyouarecordofwhenshecameinsight?”“Jawohl,HerrKaleun,19.52hours!”TheOldManstepsovertothehatchandcallsdown,“Fortherecord:‘19.52

hours. Escort vessel in sight.’ Have you got that? ‘Evasive action usingmaximumspeedonsurface—escortfailstospotusthroughcoverofourexhaustgas’—haveyougotthat?—’Throughcoverofourexhaustgas.”Sothatwasit.TheOldManwasusingthefumesdeliberately.Myheartispounding.“Exciting, isn’t it?”hesays.Then there’sanewshock. In thewesta rocket

burstshighabovethehorizon;ithangsthereforawhile,thendescribesacurve

likethecrookofacaneasitfallsandisextinguished.TheCommanderisthefirsttosetdownhisglasses.“What’sthatallabout?”“They’rechangingcourse!”saysthenavigator.“Maybe—andmaybethey’recallingupdestroyers,”theCommandergrowls.

“We don’t want them peering down our necks right now. Eyes peeled,gentlemen,nodaydreaming.”Andafterawhile,“Arocket—theymustbeoutoftheirminds!”Thenavigatorcallsdown?“Fortherecord:‘Lightrocketoverconvoyatten

degrees’—addthetime!”“Funny!”mutters theOldMan again. Then he turns his face to themoon.

“Let’shopewegetridof thatbastardbefore long!”I’mstandingclose tohim,followingthedirectionofhisglance.Themoonshowsaman’sface:fat,round,baldheaded.“Just likeacontentedoldcustomerinawhorehouse,”remarkstheSecondWatchOfficer.“Twomencontemplatingthemoon,”Imurmurtomyself.“How’sthat?”“Oh—nothing.ThetitleofapicturebyFriedrich,”“WhatFriedrich’sthat?”“CasparDavidFriedrich—Germanromanticpainter.”“Igetit!Anature-lover…”“Mastheadshigher!”reportsthenavigator.Theconvoymusthavetackedtowardus.“Veerawayagain!”The new rudder setting is reported from below. “Bearing two hundred

degrees!”Themoonadornsitselfwithawiderainbowhalo.“Let’shope they leaveusalone,” theCommandermutters testily.Aloud,he

inquiresaboutfuelconsumption.TheChief appears so quickly hemust have been lying inwait.He reports,

“Wecheckedeverythingoutat18.00,HerrKaleun.Up tonow,given thehighrateofspeed,we’veusedaboutfourteenhundredgallons.We’vepracticallynoreservesleft!”

“NumberOnestillhasasupplyofcookingoil,” jeers theOldMan.“Andifthere’snothingelsetodo,we’lljusthavetosailhome.”Isitdownonaspray-dampledgebesidetheplatformfortheanti-aircraftgun.

Whitefoamstreakspastbeneathmeinconstantlychangingpatterns.Themoon’sreflectioninthewakeisshattered.Themyriadtinysplintersareshakentogetherintoakaleidoscopeofnewformations.Theseaistransparent,illuminatedfromwithinbytinygreenishdots.Theshapeoftheboat’shullshowsclearlyagainsttheglimmer:plankton.The ironbarsof the railing throwstark shadowsalongthegratings,cuttingacrossthelinesofblackbetweentheindividualbarstoformasharplydefinedpatternofdiamonds.Thepatternmoves.Theshadowsof therailing fall across my boots: the boat must be turning in the direction of theconvoy.Allatoncethinclustersofrays,fan-shapedandpale-green,shootacrossthe

sky.“Northernlights!—Ontopofeverythingelse!”fromtheCommander.A curtain of glittering glass rods like the ones that hung from our lamp at

home is now suspended across the sky. Brilliant greenish-white light sweepsthrough the glass curtain in waves. Gleaming lances shoot up in bursts frombeyond the horizon, die, blaze up again, dim a little, grow longer as theybrighten. Thewater around the boat sparkles as if studdedwith fireflies. Ourwakebecomesaglitteringtrain.“Quite a fireworks display,” says theCommander. “Pretty, but notwhatwe

wanted.”From the brief exchanges between Commander and navigator I gather that

they’redebatingwhetherornottohaveuschargeintothemidstoftheconvoyfromaforwardposition.Thenavigatorswingshisheadthoughtfullyfromrighttoleftandbackagain.TheOldManseemsequallyuncertain.“Better not!” he says finally, and turns toward the moon. It’s an almost

circularholepunchedintheinkyclothofthesky,asplendidblazeofwhitethatfallslikegaslight,chalkybutextraordinarilyluminous.Afewcloudsdriftacrossthehorizonlikegraylumpsofice.Assoonastheycrossthepathofthemoontheylightup;inplacestheysparkleasifcoveredwithsapphires.Under the moon the sea becomes a huge plane of crumpled silver paper,

gleamingandsparkling,mirroringthelunarradianceathousandtimesover.It’sas if theseahad jelled into immobility in themoonlight.Nowaves—only this

frozenbrilliance. I’msuddenly remindedof the scene in theBarRoyalon thenightofourdeparture—Thomsen.Don’tthinkaboutthatnow.DespitethemoonlighttheOldMantriestoedgealittleclosertotheconvoy,

trusting to our dark background and probably also relying on the lack ofwatchfulnessamongthesailorsintheconvoy.Ofcourseweshowverylittleabovethewater,andwehaven’tmuchofabow

waveatthisspeed.Ifonlywecouldpresentournarrowsilhouette,boworstern,to theenemy,wewouldbealmost invisible.This,however, is impossiblerightnow:we have to pursue a course parallel to—and slightly in advance of—theconvoy’s.Whydoesn’taconvoythissizehavemoreofanoutlyingescort?Iaskmyself.

WasthatoneshipalltheTommieswereabletoprovidebywayofprotectionfortheirflanks?Orarewealreadybetweentheouterringandtheconvoyitself?The OldMan will know what to do. This isn’t his first convoy. He has a

thorough knowledge of enemy tactics. Once he even used his periscope toobserveadepthbombpursuitaimedathimself.ThecommanderofthedestroyerhadpresumedthattheboatwaslyingdeepinanestimatedpositionthattheOldManhadlongsinceabandoned.TheOldManhadallmotorsstopped,suspendedthe boat from the periscope, and watched the destroyer making its runs andlayingdownawholecarpetofdepthcharges.He’sevensaidtohaveplayedatbeingasportscommentator,givingarunningcommentaryontheproceedingssothatthemencouldshareinthefun.Rightnowhe’ssilent.“Fourcolumns,”isallhesaysinthecourseofthenext

fifteenminutes.Ourhigh-speedescapefromthepicketboathasapparentlybroughtustoofar

aheadoftheconvoy,whichexplainswhywe’vebeenrunningatslowspeedforsometime.Headquarterswillnodoubthavesummonedanumberofotherboatsthat haven’t yet arrived. For the time being, our job is to keep signaling thecourseoftheconvoy.“Perhapswemightcloseinalittlemore?”TheCommander’squestionisaddressedtoKriechbaum.“Mm!”isallthenavigatorsays,andkeepshisbinocularsfixedontheconvoy.

TheOldMantakesthisassufficientassent.Hegivesthehelmsmananorderthatbringsourbowdiagonallyacrossthecourseoftheconvoy.

Oncemorewestandstiffandsilent,Excited?Godforbid!Likelandlubbers,runsthroughmymind.Lubbers?Whatarelubbers?Butatonceadministermyownrebuke:Thehellwithit,betterconcentrateonkeepingaproperlookout!“Manbattlestations!”TheOldMan’svoicesoundsrusty.Hehastocoughto

freehisvocalcords.Frombelow,oneloudroarafteranother.“ChiefEngineer:Engineroomonbattlestations!”TheChieftothebridge,“Belowdeckonbattlestations!” But that’s not the end of it. “FirstWatchOfficer: Torpedo crew onbattle stations!” And now the unmistakable high voice of the First WatchOfficer:“Torpedocrewonbattlestations!”Thedirectionfinderishandedup.TheFirstWatchOfficeplacesitcarefully

onitscolumnasifitwerearawegg.As seen from the convoy, we are right in the path of the noon. I can’t

understandwhytheOldManstaysonthissideandnotintheshadow.Probablyhe’sthinkingthewaytheywould:Seaasbrightassilverpaperinthemoonlight,morebrilliant thanfullnondaysun,sowhyshouldanyGermansubmarinesbeplowingaroundhere?ClearlytheOldManiscountingontheenemy’sdefensesbeingweakeronthe

moonlit side. And he’s probably right, for if there weren’t any holes in thedefenseonthisside,wewouldhavebeendiscoveredlongago.Icanpicturethedeploymentoftheshipsandtheescortvesselsasclearlyasin

anaerialreconnaissancephotograph:fourcolumnsinanextendedrectangle;inthemiddlethemostvaluableships,thetankers;twocorvettes—thesweepers—asadvanceguards,racinginwidecirclesdirectlyinfrontoftheconvoy,inorderto prevent any U-boats from swinging back among the steamers from anadvancedposition.Guardingtheflanks,destroyersorcorvettesspeedingupanddown—intheleeofthemoon,ofcourse.Then,atagreatdistancefromtheherd,therearguarddefense,thekillers:escortshipsthatarenotspecificallydefendingtheconvoy,becauseU-boatscouldhardlyattackfromapositionastern.Theyarethere to take on anyU-boats that have been spotted by the convoy corvettes,workthemoverwhiletheconvoymoveson.20.00. It occurs tome that I should have a second night film ready. Inmy

hastydescent Imakeamessof things. I’vehardlyarrived in thecontrol roomwhenaconfusionofcriesreachesmefromabove.AbandoningmyfilmIhastilyclimbupagain.“Vesselapproaching.”TheCommander.“There—comingfromoutside—youcanseeheredgingup!”

Istopbreathing.Ahead,fourpointstoport,Icatchsightofthemastheadsofthesteamers.ButtheOldManisfacingaft.Isearchinthatdirection.Thereitis:anarrowshadowpointingoverthehorizon.Whatdowedonow?Dive?Makeagetaway?Giveup?Saythehellwithit?“Bothengines full ahead!”TheCommander’svoice is amonotone.Will he

trytheoldtrickagainandjustkeepongoing?“Onepointtoport!”Sothat’snotit.Aminutepasses,thentheOldManmakeshisintentionsclear.“Closinginon

theconvoy!”As I directmy glasses toward the steamers again, the navigator announces

“Mastheadsgettingbigger!”inavoicelessthanmatteroffact.We must either dive to escape the approaching destroyer or run much too

closetotheconvoy.Our wake whips back and forth like a huge tail. Over it spread the diesel

fumes,screeningusinmist;withluckit’llworkthistimetoo.Inanycase,Icannolongerseetheshadowofthedestroyerthroughtheveilofgas.Iswingtheglassesback.Theconvoyisnowdirectlyinfrontofourbow.“Dammittohell!”fromtheCommander.“Destroyerappearstobefallingback,”reportsthenavigator.Longminutesof

tenseuncertaintybeforehebreaksthespell:“Distanceincreasing!”TheCommanderhasn’tgivenanotherglancetothedestroyer.Allhisattention

isfocusedonthehummocksonthehorizon—directlyoverourbow.“What’sourcourse?”“Bearingfiftydegrees!”“Fifteenpointstostarboard,steeronehundredfortydegrees.”I’mstillparalyzedwithfear.TheCommandersays,“They’rerunninginratherlooseformationOnlythen

doeshecomebacktothedestroyer.“Goodthingwedidn’tdive.Closethingthistime.”Abruptly he asks the navigator, “Kriechbaum, what sort of feeling d’you

have?”

The navigator leaves his elbow propped in position, simply turns his headfrombehindthebinoculars,andsays,“It’sasurething,HerrKaleun!Absolutely.Hastowork!”“Perfectlystraightforward.”Funnysortofconversation,Ithink.Aretheyreassuringeachother?I sneak a look into the tower. Covers have been removed from the target-

positioncalculator,thedeflectioncalculator,andthetorpedo-firingmechanism.Bluishlightgleamsfromthedials.“Time!”theCommanderasksbelow.“20.10hours!”Unbelievable that we should be allowed to travel unchallenged beside the

convoyasthoughweactuallybelongtoit.“I don’t like the look of that shadow,” the Commander murmurs to the

navigator.Iturninthesamedirectionandpickupthethinginmyglasses.Itsangletous

is very sharp. Approaching or receding—we can’t tell. Thirty degrees or onehundredfifty!It’scertainlynosteamer!ButtheOldManisalreadyturningawayagain.TheFirstWatchOfficer is fumblingnervouslywith thedirection finder.He

peers through the telescopic sight, then straightens up againmomentarily andtakeshisbearingdirect,overthebulwarkinthedirectionoftheconvoy.TheOldMan,sensinghisrestlessness,asksinaderisiveundertone,“Visibilitysuityou,FirstWatchOfficer?”AgainandagaintheOldManturnshisfacetothemoon.Thenhegivesvoice

tohisannoyance.“Wishwecouldusethethingfortargetpractice…”Iplacemyhopesintheclouds,whicharelyingindeeppilesonthehorizon

andgraduallyrising—soslowly,admittedly,thatitmaytakeagoodwhilebeforetheyreachthemoon.“They’re tacking to starboard!” says the OldMan, and is seconded by the

navigator:“JustwhatIwasthinking.”Theshadowshaveindeedgrownflatter.TheOldManordersaten-pointturntostarboard.“They’renotgoingtotrysomenewtrick?”

I’mstandingsoclosetotheTBTthatIcanheartheFirstWatchOfficereverytimehebreathesout.I’muneasy:thepalershadowisnolongertobeseen.“Time?”“20.28hours!”

VIIISECONDATTACK

Themoonhas turnedevenwhiter, icier.All around its sharplydefinedhalotheskyisclear.Butoneofthecloudsonthehorizonisadvancingonit,lookinglikethevanguardofawholehorde.Ionlyhaveeyesforthisparticularone.It’smovingintherightdirection,but

afterawhileitslowsdownuntilit’shardlyrisingatall;thenitturnsthreadbareandstartstounravel.Aswewatch,itdissolves.Allthat’sleftisaveilofvapor.“Forchrissake!”hissesthenavigator.Butthenanothercloudpreparestofreeitselffromthehorizon,evenheavier

andfullerthanthefirst.Thewindpushesitalittlesideways,exactlythewaywewantittogo.Noone

iscursinganylonger,asifcursingmightupsetit.Iabandonthecloudtoconcentrateonthehorizon.InmyglassesIcanmake

outthebow,stern,andmidshipsuperstructuresofthefreighters.TheCommandertellstheFirstWatchOfficerhisplan.“Chargethemandfire.

After firing, turn instantly to port. If that cloudkeeps rising, I’ll go in for themainattack!”The First Watch Officer gives the instructions for the calculator, which is

operatedbyonemaninthetowerandasecondinthecontrolroom.“Tubesonetofourstandbyforsurfacefiring!”Allfourtorpedotubesareflooded.The bow compartment reports over the speaking tube: “Tubes one to four

clearforsurfacefiring!”“Connect TBT and target position calculator. Firing will take place from

bridge!”orderstheFirstWatchOfficer.Thewordscomesmoothly.Sohecandoit.He’sgotthatmuchbyheart.Themateatthecalculatorinthetoweracknowledgestheorders.TheOldManbehavesasthoughallthisliturgicalantiphonyhasnothingtodo

with him. Only the tension in his stance betrays his acute awareness of

everythingthat’sgoingon.The First Watch Officer now reports to the mate in the tower: “Enemy

position bow right—angle fifty—enemy speed ten knots—range ten thousandfeet—torpedospeedthirty—depthten—positionchanging.”TheFirstWatchOfficerdoesn’tneedtoworryabouttheproperleadanglefor

thetorpedoes.Thepositioncalculatorcomputesthat.Thecalculatorisconnecteddirectlywith thegyrocompassand theTBTcolumn,alongwith the torpedoes,whose steeringmechanism is thus continuously adjusted. Every change in theboat’s course is automatically translated for the torpedoes.All theFirstWatchOfficerhas todoiskeepthe target in thecrosshairsof theglassesontheTBTcolumn.Hebendsover theeyepiece. “Ready for comparison reading!…Variation…

Zero!”“Must work,” the Commander murmurs. Once more he glances up at the

moon.Thesecondcloudhasstopped,likeacaptiveballoonthathasreacheditspredeterminedheight.Threehandbreadthsbelowthemoon:Thereithangs,anddoesn’tbudge.“One good push!” The navigator shakes his clenched fist; an outburst of

feelingfromsoquietamanasKriechbaumamazesme.But there’sno timetomuse over the navigator; the Commander jerks his face sharply around andorders:“Fullspeedahead!Harda-port!Commenceattack!Opentorpedodoors!”From below come the shouted repetitions of the commands. The bow is

alreadybeginningtoswingalongthehorizon—seekingtheshadows.“Midships!—Steady as she goes!Hold ninety degrees!” The boat is racing

straightatthedarkshapes,whicharegrowinglargerbythesecond.Theplowshareofthebowcutsintotheshiningsea,hurlingasidegreatmasses

ofsparklingwater.Thewavesurges,glintswithathousandfacets.Theforeshiprises. Immediatelyspraysweepsoverus.Thedieselsarerunningat fullspeed.Thebulwarkquivers.“Findyourtarget!”theCommanderorders.TheFirstWatchOfficerremainsbentoverthesight.“There,thosetwooverlappingones,we’lltakethem.Haveyougotthem?To

the left, beside the single freighter! The big onewill need a double shot, theotherssingles.Fireadouble,oneattheforwardedgeofthebridgeandonejustaheadoftheaftermast!”

I’mstandingclosebehindtheCommander.“Tubesonetofourclear!”Myheart ishammering inmy throat,and Ican’t thinkstraight.The roaring

engines,theshadows,thesilversea,themoon,thefinalcharge!We’remeanttobeaU-boat—let’sprayeverythinggoesright.The First Watch Officer keeps the target in his sights. His mouth is

downturned, his voice matter of fact and dry. He’s constantly revising hisfigures.Healreadyhashisrighthandonthefiringlever.“Connecttubesoneandtwo—anglesixty-five—followchangingangle!”“Requestangle!”“Angleseventy…angleeighty!”ClosebesidemeIheartheCommandersay,“Tubesoneandtwo,permission

tofire!”SecondslatertheFirstWatchOfficerorders,“Tubesoneandtwofire!”Istrainallmysenses:noreport—nojolt—nothing!Theboatraceson,even

closertothefreighters.They’venoticednothing!—nothing!“Connecttubethree!”“Tubethree—fire!”“Portten!”orderstheCommander.Oncemorethebowmoves,searching,alongthechainofships.“Connect tube four!” from the FirstWatchOfficer. Hewaits until the new

targetisinpositionandorders,“Tubefour—fire!”It’satthismoment,closebesidethetargetsteamer,thatIdiscoveralong,low

ship—ashadowthat’snotasdarkastheothers—probablypaintedgray.“Harda-port!Connectsterntube!”ThatwastheCommander.Theboatheels

heavilyassheturns.Theshadowsmovetostarboard.Thenavigatorcalls,“Vesselveeringthisway!”Iseethatoursternisnowaimedattheshadows.ButIalsoseethatthelight-

coloredshapeisnarrowing.Icanevenseethethreadofherbowwave.“Tube five—fire! Hard a-starboard!” shouts the Commander. The boat has

barely swung toward the other side when orange-red lightning blazes up,

followedinafractionofasecondbyanotherflash.Amightyfiststrikesmeintheknees,andasharpwhistlinggoesthroughmelikecoldsteel.“They’refiring,thebastards!ALARM!”roarstheOldMan.WithonejumpI’minthehatchandletmyselffallthrough.Seabootslandon

myshoulders.Ileapaway,jammedupagainstthecharttable,doubledoverwithpain.Someonegoesrollingacrossthefloorinfrontofme.“Flood!”shouts theCommander,andimmediatelyafterward,“Harda-port!”

There’sadashofwaterfromabove.Ourhighspeedisforcingtheboatdownatasteeperanglethanusual,buttheCommanderstillorders,“Allhandsforward!”“Thatwasdamnedgood!”heexclaimsashecatchesupwithus.Ihavesomedifficultyrealizingthatthisispraisefortheenemyartillery.The

cavalcade of men goes stumbling through the compartment. I catch terrifiedlooks.Everythingbeginstoslide.Theleatherjacketsandthebinocularsontheirhookstorightandleftofthehatcharestandingoutfromthewalls.The needle of the depth manometer sweeps over the scale, till the Chief

finallyordersthehydroplanesreversed.Thejacketsandbinocularssinkslowly—verygradually—backtowardthewalls.Theboatreturnstoanevenkeel.I can’t catch the Commander’s eye. “That was damned good”—anything

betterandwe’dhavebeendonefor.Icanthinkofonlyonething:thetorpedoes—whataboutthetorpedoes?“JustasIthought—itwasadestroyer,”saystheCommander.Hesoundsshort

ofbreath. Icanseehischestheaving.He looksusoveras if toassurehimselfthateveryone’spresent,thenmutters,“Thereturnengagementisabouttobegin.”Thedestroyer!Atsuchcloserange!TheOldManmusthaveknownforsome

time that thepale shadowwasno freighter.TheTommies’destroyers are lightgray,justlikeours.There’sadestroyercominghellforleatherstraightatourdivingpoint!“The

returnengagement!”It’sgoingtobeaprettyexplosiveone.“Takeherdowntothreehundredfeet—slowly,”orderstheOldMan.The Chief repeats the order in a low voice. He’s crouching behind the

hydroplaneoperators,hiseyesfixedonthemanometer.Awhisper:“Nowwe’reinforit!”Makeyourselfheavy,makeyourselfsmall,shrink!

Ourtorpedoes!Didtheyallmiss?Canthathappen?Fiveofthem?Adoubleandtwosinglesandthesterntubeaswellwhilewewereturning.Admittedlytheshotfromtubefivewashastilyaimed,buttheothers!Whynoexplosion?TheChiefbringshisheadevenclosertotheroundeyeofthemanometer.On

his forehead, sweat sparkles likepearls ofdew. I see the singledrops linkup,makingtrailsdownhisfacelikesnailtracks.Hewipeshisforeheadimpatientlywiththebackofhishand.We’vebarelymovedaninch.They’llbeaboveusanymomentnow.Whatwentwrong?Whynoexplosions?Everyonestandssilent,brooding.Theneedleofthedepthmanometermoves

anothertendivisions.Itrytothinkclearly.Howlongsincewedived?—Howfastwasthatdestroyer

moving?—Misses!—All misses!—These shitty torpedoes!—The familiarsuspicions—Sabotage!What else could it be?Faulty steeringmechanisms, thebastards!AndanyminutenowtheTommieswillbe rippingourassesup!TheOld Man must have been out of his mind. What he did was a torpedo boatattack!On the surface!Straightupandat ‘em.Theycan’thavebelieved theireyes! How many yards’ range was it, anyway? How many seconds for adestroyer to reachusat topspeed?Thosegarbledsteeringorders!The turn!—Crazy: The OldMan had ordered hard a-port just as we were diving. That’ssomething you never do. What can he have been up to? Then I get it: TheTommiessawusdivingawaytostarboard.TheOldManwastryingtofoolthem—let’shopethey’renotascraftyasweare!TheOldManrestsonethighonthechartchest.AllIseeofhimishisbent

backandthedimwhiteofhiscapovertheupturnedcollarofhisfur-linedvest.Thenavigator’seyesarealmostcompletelyclosed:slitscarvedinwoodwith

a sharpchisel.He’s suckinghis lipsbetweenhis teeth.His righthandholdingfasttothehousingoftheskyperiscope.Sixfeetaway,thecontrol-roommate’sfaceisnomorethanapaleblob.A dull, smothered sound breaks the silence—like a stick hitting a slack

drumhead.“Thatonegotit!”whisperstheCommander.Heraiseshisheadabruptly,andI

canseehisface.Hiseyesaresquinting,hismouthstretchedwide.Anotherdullconcussion.

“Andthatonetoo!Damnedslowrunningtime,”headdsdryly.Whatishetalkingabout?Torpedoes?Havetwoofthemhit?TheSecondWatchOfficerhasstraightenedup.Hisfistsareknottedandhe’s

baringhisclenchedteethlikeanape.It’sobvioushewantsdesperatelytoshout.Butheonlyswallowsandchokes.Thegrimacestaysfrozenonhisface.Theneedleofthedepthmanometerkeepsmovingslowlyoverthedial.Anotherdrumbeat.“Numberthree!”sayssomeone.Thesedulldetonations—isthatallthereistoit?Isqueezemyeyesshut.All

mynervesseemtobeconcentratedinmyearcanals.Isthatallthere’sgoingtobe?Then there’s a sound like a sheet being slowly torn in two, followed by a

second sheet being rapidly ripped to shreds. After that, a violent rasping ofmetal,andnowallaroundusnothingbuttearing,grating,knocking,cracking.I’ve been holding my breath so long that I have to fight for air. Dammit.

What’shappeningnow?TheOldManraiseshishead.“Twoofthemgoingdown,navigator—therearetwo,wouldn’tyousay?”Thenoise—isthatthebulkheadsbursting?“They’ve—had—it!”TheOldMandragsthewordsoutinlongbreaths.Noonemoves.Noonegivesavictoryyell.Thecontrol-roommateisstanding

besideme,motionless,inhisusualposition,onehandontheladder,headturnedtofacethedepthmanometer.Thetwohydroplaneoperators:stifffoldsinrubbersuits,sou’westersgleamingwithmoisture.Thepaleeyeof themanometer: thepointersteadynow.ThenI register:Thehydroplaneoperatorsareactuallystillwearingtheirsou’westers!“Damnedslowrunningtime.I’dalreadygivenup.”TheCommander’svoice

isbackto itsusualdarkgrowl.Thebreakingandcracking,roaringandtearingshownosignofcomingtoanend.“Nowthere’sacoupleofboatsyoucanwriteoffforgood.”Thenashatteringblowknocksmeoffmyfeet.InthenickoftimeIcatchhold

ofapipetobreakmyfall.There’sacrashofbreakingglass.

Ipullmyselfupright,automaticallystaggerforwardacoupleofsteps, jostleagainstsomeone,collidewithahardcorner,andcollapseintothehatchframe.This is it. The reckoning!Mustn’t let yourself go! I pressmy left shoulder

hardagainstthemetalframeofthehatchandmakemyselfasheavyasIcan.Iuse both hands to seize the pipe that runs under my thighs.My own specialplace. My hands touch the smooth enamel paint and feel the rust on theundersideofthepipe.Anirongrip.Likeavise.Istareintentlyatthebackofmylefthand,thenmyright,asthoughstaringcouldmakethemgripalltheharder.Where’sthenext?Iraisemyhunchedheadveryslowly,likeaturtle,readytoretractitinstantly

whentheexpectedblowcomes.AllIhearissomeonesniffingviolently.MyeyesseemtobedrawnmagneticallytotheCommander’scap.Hetakesa

step—andhiscapandtheredandwhitescalesoneithersideofthewatergaugebecomepartofasingleimage:clowns’stripedwhips.OrtheoversizedlollipopsthatstandlikeflowersinjarsinthewindowsofParisianconfectioners.All-daysuckers.Or the beacon lighthouse thatwe sawon the port bowaswe left theharbor.Thatwaspaintedredandwhitetoo.Thehatchframealmostbucksmeout.Anenormousdetonationtriestoshatter

myeardrums.Thenblowafterblow,asif theseawereamassofhugepowderkegsbeingsetoffinquicksuccession.Amultipledrop.Christ,thatwasaccurate!Thatwastheirsecondcharge.They’renofools,and

theydidn’tfallforourbluff.Mygutscontract.Outside,nothingbut rearing,gurgling, rumbling!Underseawhirlpools seize

theboat,tossingitviolentlythiswayandthat.Luckily,I’msofirmlywedgedImightaswellbeinagyrowheel.Suddenlythegurglingofthewater,pouringbackonitselftofillthevacuum

left by the explosions, ebbs away, but we can still hear the dull roaring,knocking,andbreakingupoftheotherboats.The Commander laughs like a madman. “They’re certainly going down—

well, that saves us a parting shot. Too badwe can’twatch the tubs go under,though.”I blink in exasperation. But already the OldMan’s voice is matter of fact

again.“Thatwasthesecondstrike!”

I become aware of the voice of the hydrophone operator. My powers ofperceptionmust have been partially suspended. The operator must have beengivingcontinuousreports,butIhaven’theardaword.“Destroyerbearingthirtydegreestoport.Gettinglouderfast!”TheCommander’seyesarefixedontheoperator’slips.“Anychange?”Theoperatorhesitates.Finallyhereports,“Soundrecedingastern!”TheCommanderimmediatelyordersanincreaseinspeed.NowIcanfinally

clearthefogfrommybrain,followwhatisgoingon,andthinkwiththeothers.Thehopeisthatthedestroyerwillcrossourcourseagoodwayastern,whichisobviouslywhattheOldMan’safter.Westilldon’tknowwhichwaythedestroyerwillturninitsrenewedattempt

topassoverhead—theOldManmustbeguessingthatit’llbetoport,forhehasthehelmputhardtostarboard.ThechiefmechanicFranzcomesintotheroom.Hisfaceischalkwhite.Beads

of sweat gleam like glycerin on his forehead.Although there are nowaves toworryabout,hehangsonfirstwithhislefthand,thenwithhisright.“They’vegotus!”heblurtsout.Thenheshoutsforsafetycassettesforthegyrocompass.“Stopthatracket!”theCommanderroundsonhimangrily.Four detonations in quick succession, almost a single blow. But the deep

whirlpoolsdon’treachus.“Astern—wayastern!”theOldManjeers.“Notaseasyasallthat.”Heprops his left leg against the chart table, thenundoes the buttons of his

collar.He’smakinghimselfcomfortable.Hepusheshishandsintothepocketsofhisleathertrousersandturnstothenavigator.Another single detonation—not close, but the echo is remarkably long.The

bubblingandroaringseemnever-ending.ThroughthedullhubbubcomestheOldMan’svoice.“They’respittinginthe

wrongcorner.”The destroyer certainly seems to have faulty bearings—another couple of

distant detonations. But we’re still tormented by the acoustical aftermath ofeverybomb—eventhosethatexplodeseveralthousandyardsaway.Theenemyknowshowdemoralizingthiscanbe,evenifthebombsfallwideofthemark.“Takethisdown,navigator.”“Jawohl,HerrKaleun.”

“’22.40 hours proceed to attack’—22.40 hours is right, isn’t it, navigator?—’proceedtoattack.Columnsrunningincloseformation—yes,closeformation.Howmanycolumnswedon’tneedtosay.‘Destroyersclearlyvisibleupaheadandonthemoonlitside…’”How’sthat?Clearlyvisible?Destroyersclearlyvisibleupahead…Sothere’s

morethanone?Mymouthgoesdry.TheOldMandidn’tsayawordaboutit.Onthecontrary,hewasactingthewholetimeasiftherewerenoescortonthesidewewereattacking.“’…clearlyvisible.’Haveyougot that? ‘Attackonstarboardsideof second

column’—gotthattoo?”“Jawohl,HerrKaleun.”“’Moonverybright…’”“Youcan say that again,”murmurs theSecondWatchOfficer,but so softly

theCommandercan’thearhim.“’…verybright—butnotbrightenoughtonecessitateunderwaterattack…’”I have to get up to make way for the men who ended up in the bow

compartmentwhen“Allhandsforward!”wasordered,andwhonowwanttogetbackthroughthehatch.Theytiptoepastliketightropewalkerstoavoidmakinganynoise.TheOldManorders theboatdownfartherandtoholddepthandcoursefor

aboutfiveminutes.Andwhenthehydrophoneoperatorannouncesanewattackhetakesusdeeperstill.He’sbettingthatthepeopleinthedestroyerwon’thavecaughtthissecondmaneuverandthereforethatthey’llbesettingtheircanisterstogooffat thepreviousdepth…theonewewereholdingjust longenoughtomakesuretheirsoundmengotagoodreading.New reports from the operator. No doubt about it: the destroyer is on our

heels.Despitetheurgencyintheoperator’svoicetheOldMangivesnoneworders

to the helmsman. I know: he’s postponing any change in course until the lastmoment, so thedestroyer that’s speedingafteruswon’thave time tocopyourmaneuver.Hareandhound!Onlywhenthedogisabouttosnap—whenhe’ssurethehareisalreadyinhisjaws—doesthehareswerve,hutthedogcan’tmaketheturn:Hisownmomentumistoogreat.Theanalogydoesn’ttotallyfitourcase,Iadmit—we’renotasfastasthehare

andour turningcircle is toobig. Indeed, it doesn’t fit at all:Thedestroyer an

alwaysturnfasterthanwecan.Butifit’srunningfullspeedandwantstochangecourse,ittooisthrownoff.Atincanlikethatsimplyhastoolittledraft.“Nothadshooting.Azimuthdamnedgood.Theyjustaimeda little toohigh

ThentheOldManorders,“Harda-starboard.Portmotorfullspeedahead!”All the auxiliary machines have long since been turned off: the radio

transformer,theveitilators,eventhegyrocompass.Ihardlydarebreathe,Quietasamouse. \Vbiatdoesthatmean,“Quietasamouse”?Thecatupthere—wemicedownhere?Anyway,don’tmove!Theyreallyshouldhavegotusonthefirstattack—theyweresoclosetoour

diving point. But the Old Man was too clever for them. First he turned ournarrow silhouette toward theirs.And then the turn to starboard—and thedive,butwith the rudderharda-port.Likeaplayer takingagoalkickwho looksatonecornerofthenetandkicksattheother.TheOldManfavorsmewithanod.“We’renotthroughwiththemyet.Tough

lot.They’renobeginners.”“Really,”isallImanage.“Thoughtheymustbegettingatrifleannoyedbynow,”headds.Heordersusdownfarther;fivehundredfeet.Goingbytheoperator’sreports,

thedestroyermustbefollowingusaroundonaleash.Atanymomenttheycansignaltheirenginesfullspeedaheadandstartattacking.Whatweneedisafasterboat.TheOldManordershigherspeed.Thisinvolvesallsortsofrisks,becausethe

fasterthemotorsrunthemorerackettheymake.TheTommiesmustbeabletohearourE-motorsjustbyusingtheirears.ButtheCommander’sprimeconcernisprobablytogetoutofrangeoftheenemy’sdirectionfinder.“Destroyergettinglouder!”theoperatorannouncesinalowvoice.TheCommanderwhispersanorderforustoreducespeedagain.Soitdidn’t

work.Wedidn’tmanagetobreakaway.They’restillafterus.They’renotgoingto let themselves be shaken off; they’d rather let their scows wallow alongwithout protection. After all, positive location of a U-boat is no everydayoccurrence.Agigantic sledgehammerhits theboat.At almost the same instant, theOld

Manordersthebilgepumpsturnedonandthespeedincreased.Assoonasthetumultoutsideebbsawayhehasthepumpsstoppedandthemotorsreducedtoslow.“Thirteen—fourteen,”thenavigatorcounts,andmakestwonewmarkson

his slate. So thatwas two bombs. I count: firstwe had four.Then the seconddrop,themultipleejection,wascountedassix.Doesthatcheck?Irecalculate.Another three, fourblows—soviolent that the floorplates clatter. I feel the

detonations right down to my stomach. Cautiously I turn my head. Thenavigator’schalkingupfour.TheOldManhasn’tbudgedaninch.Heholdshisheadsothathehasoneeye

onthedepthmanometerandhisleftearturnedtowardthesoundroom.“Theyreallydon’tseemtolikeus.”Thatfromtheensign.Unbelievable:He

actuallysaidsomething.Nowhe’sstaringatthefloorplates:Thesentencemusthaveescapedhiminvoluntarily.Everyoneheard.Thenavigatorisgrinning,andtheOldManturnshishead.Foraninstantthere’satraceofamusementonhisface.The pebbles.At first it sounds like nomore than a handful of coarse sand

thrownagainstourportside.Butnowit’sgardengravel,three,fourscoops,oneaftertheother.TheirAsdic.Itfeelslikebeingsuddenlylitupfromallsides,asifwewerelyingexposedonahugestageinfullviewoftheaudience.“Swine!”muttersthecontrol-roommatehalftohimself.ForamomentIhate

themtoo,butafterall,whoorwhatare“they”:thehardsingingofthescrews,the hornet buzz, the rattle of gravel against the boat’s side? That shadow, thenarrow silhouette thatwasonly a shadebrighter than the freighters—that’s allI’vebeenabletoseeoftheenemy.Thewhitesoftheireyes!Forus,that’spurerubbish!We’velostoursight.No

moreseeing—only listening.Earagainst thewall!Sowhynonewreport fromoureavesdropper-in-chief?TheCommanderisblinkingimpatiently.Nothing?AllearsharkenuntoThee,OLord,forThouwiltbringgreatfoytothosewho

trust in Thyword—or something like that. The Bible Scholar would have theexact quote; he’s hardly recognizable in the dusky light. The hydrophoneoperator raises his eyebrows. That’s another sign: won’t be long beforeeveryone’searsarebusyagain.Theyhaveears,andhearnot.OneofthePsalmsofDavid.I’mallears.Iam

onegiganticear,allmynervesasinglelisteningknot;they’vetwinedthemselveslikefineelfinhairaroundhammer,anvil,andstirrup.A box on the ears—we’ve had plenty of those—lend a willing ear—walls

haveears—pullthewooloversomeone’sears…Ofcourse,that’sit:theywanttoskinus,pullourhideoverourears.

Howdothingslookonthesurfacenow?There’s sure tobeamurderousamountof illumination.All searchlightson,

andtheskystuddedwithparachuteflaressothatthearchenemycan’tescape.Allcannonbarrelsloweredandreadytobefiredatonceiftheysucceedinforcingustothesurface.Theoperatorreports,“Destroyerbearingtwentydegrees.Gettinglouderfast!”

Andafterashorthesitation,“Commencingattack!”Twoaxblowshit theboatbroadside.Morewildroaringandgurgling.Then

twomoreblowsinthemidstoftheragingtumult.I’veopenedmymouth thewayartillerymendoso thatmyeardrumswon’t

burst. After all, I was trained as a naval gunner. But now I’m not next to acannon;I’montheotherend,inthemidstoftheburstingshells.There’snogettingawayfromhere.Nousethrowingyourselfflat.Diggingin

—that’salaugh:whatwehaveunderourfeetareironfloorplatescoveredwithcunt patterns, as Zeitler calls the thousand little shapes. I exert all my self-control to suppress claustrophobia, thedamnableurge to flee in anydirection.Keepyourfeetnailedtothefloor!Iprayforleadinthesolesofmyshoes,likethose bright, barrel-shaped toy figures that always bob up again however youknock them down. Thank god, I can remember what they’re called. Standupmen… standup men, incense men, humming tops, fancy nutcrackers. Brightprettytoys.When you think about it, I’mwell off. I can’t be knocked over either. The

frameofthehatchinwhichI’mcrouchingisthebestplacetobeatatimelikethis.I loosenmygripon thepipe.Apparently it’s safe to relax.Ease themuscle

cramp, move the jawbone, rest the skeleton, relax the belly muscles, let theblood circulate. For the first time I realize how painful my contortions havebeen.Oureverymoveisdefinedbyouropponents.TheTommiescanevendecide

whatpositionswemustassume.Wedrawourheads in,huddlewaitingfor theimpact of the detonation, and stretch and loosen up once the roaring beginsoutside.EventheOldManiscarefulnottounleashhisderisivelaughterexceptduringthegurglingthatfollowstheexplosions.The operator half opens his mouth. Immediately I catch my breath again.

Whatnow?IfonlyIknewwherethelastseriesfell,justhowfarfromtheboat

the bombs exploded or how farwe are from our diving point!After our firstunsuccessful attempt to break away, it seems as though the pursuit has gonearoundandaround in circles—first to the right, then to the left, upanddown,likearollercoasterride.Wehaven’tmadeanygroundatall.Everyattemptsofartobreakoutsidewaysandfindcoverhasbeenspottedbytheenemy.Theoperatorcloseshismouthandopens itagain.He looks likeacarp ina

tank at the fish st are.Open, shut, and then open again.He announces a newattack.Andthenimmediatelycalls“Asdic!”hoarselyfromthesoundroom.Hecould

havesavedhimselfthetrouble.Everyoneinthecontrolroomhasheardtheping-ping.Ashavethemeninthebowcompartmentontopofthetorpedoes,andaftinthemotorroomanddieselroom.Theenemyhasgotus trapped in the tentaclesof thedirection finder.Right

nowthey’re turningsteelhandwheelsandsearching through threedimensionswithpulsingbeams—zirp—zirp—ping—ping…TheAsdic,Iremindmyself,isonlyeffectiveuptoaspeedofaboutthirteen

knots.During a fast attack the destroyer no longer has directional contact.Athigher speeds the Asdic suffers major interference from the destroyer’s ownnoisesand thecommotionof its screws,which isanadvantage forus, since itgivesusa last-minuteopportunity tomakeminorchanges inourposition.ButtheCommanderupthereisalsocapableoffiguringoutthatwewon’tstandstilland wait for the attack. Only: which way we move is the one thing hisdirectionalboyscan’ttellhim.Therehehastousehisintuition.Onebreakforusisthatourenemyandhisclevermachinecan’t tellexactly

howdeepweare.Inthis,natureisonourside:waterisnotsimplywater;rightdownthroughourpresentdepthit formslayers likesedimentaryrock.Thesaltcontent and the physical characteristics of the individual layers are never thesame.And theyscatter theAsdic.Allwehave todo ismovesuddenly fromalayerofwarmwaterintoacoldoneandtheAsdicbecomesinaccurate.Alayerof dense plankton will influence it too. And the people up there with theirapparatuscan’tcorrecttheirplottingofourpositionwithanyconfidencebecausetheydon’tknowwherethesedamnlayersare.Herrmannisworkingawayathiswheel.“Report!”saystheOldManinthedirectionofthesoundroom.“Soundsbearingthreehundredfiftydegrees.”

Inlessthanfiveminutesthescrewsareaudibletothenakedear.Ritschipitschipitschipitschi—that’s no full-speed attack. The destroyer is

moving just fastenough tobeable togoon trackingus,and theAsdicechoesloudandclear.Afreshattack.Four,fivedetonations.Close.AgainstclosedeyelidsIproject

jets of flame, towering St. Elmo’s fire, the flickering gleam of chrysoprase,cascadingsparksarounddark-redcentralcores,dazzlingwhitenaphthaflames,whirling Chinese pinwheels, blinding surges, amethyst beams piercing thedarkness,anenormousfieryholocaustloosedfromrainbow-haloedfountainsofbronze.“Exercisemaneuvers,”whisperstheOldMan.Iwouldn’tcallthemthat.Agiganticfistcomesdownandshakestheboat.Ifeelthethrustinmyknees

aswe’rejoltedupward.Theneedleofthedepthindicatorjerksback.Thelightgoesout,andthere’sthesoundofbreakingglass.Myheartispounding—finallytheemergencylightgoeson.IseetheOldManbitinghislowerlip.It’sthemomentofdecision.Doeshe

take the boat down to the depth where the last bombs exploded or up a fewhundredfeet?Heordersaturnandasimultaneousdive.Backdowntherollercoasteragain.

One—two—three—butwhere?Up?Down?Left?Thelastsurgemadeitsoundas if the bombs had been forward and to port of us. But were they above orbelowtheboat?Herewegoagain.Theoperatorresumeshisreports.Theblowhitsmerightonthethirddorsalvertebra.Followedbyanother—and

another:twostraightpunchestothebackoftheheadandtheneck.Smoke is beginning to swirl out from the helmsman’s station. To crown

everything else, are we going to have a fire? Are those cables beginning tosmolder?Andwon’tthatcauseshortcircuits?Calmdown!Nothingcanhappentothisscow:Iamonboard.Iamimmortal.

Withmeonboardtheboatisimmune.Nodoubtaboutit—theinstrumentpanelisonfire!ThesignontheMinimax:

Keepcalm!Fightfirefrombelow.Mybrainkeepsrepeating:immune—immune—immune.Thecontrol-roommatespringsintoactionandalmostdisappearsintheflames

andsmoke.Twoorthreemengotohisassistance.Inoticethattheboatisbow

heavy—moreandmoreso.Ihear,“Valve—bilgeductbroken.”Butthatcan’tbeallthereistoit!Whydoesn’ttheChieftrimtowardthestern?Whatelseareourtrimtanksfor,ifnottoactasabalancingrod?Although the destroyermust be quite close, theOldMan orders full speed

ahead.Ofcourse!Wealreadyhavetoomuchwaterintheboat;wecannolongermanagetokeepherbuoyant.Weneedthepowerofthescrewsandtheirpressureon thehydroplanes tomake theboat sternheavy fast.Otherwise theOldManwouldnevercreatesucharacket:atthisspeedit’slikehavingacowbellaroundourneck.Dilemma:tosinkorspeedup.TheTommiesuptheremustbeabletohearus—motors,screws,andbilgepump—withtheirownears.TheymightjustaswellturnofftheirAsdicandsavethecurrent.In addition tohis complicatedcourse calculations, theOldMannowhas to

worry constantly about theboat’s depth.We’re in a tricky situation, If itwereonlyaquestionofsurfacing, thatwouldn’t takemuch:“Donrescuegear,”andblowthetankswitheverythingwe’vegot.Don’teventhinkaboutit!Everything’swet,coveredincondensation.“Driving-shaft gaskets making water!” someone shouts from the stern.

Immediately followed, from forward, by “…valve leaking!” I’m no longerpayingmuchattention.Whybotherworryingaboutwhichvalveitmightbe.Four detonations in quick succession, then the mad gurgle and roar of the

blackfloodrushingbackintothehugehollowstornoutbythebombs.“Thirty-three—four—five—thirty-six,” thenavigatorcounts ina loudvoice.

Thattimeitwasclose!We’renowatfourhundredfeet.TheOldMantakesusdeeperandturnstheboattoport.The next detonation slamsmy teeth together. I can hear sobbing. The new

control-roomassistant?Surelyhe’snotgoingtohaveafitofhysterics?“Niceshooting!”theOldManjeersloudlyasthenextdetonationssurgeover

us.I tense my stomach muscles as if to protect my organs against a ton of

pressure. It’ssomeminutesbefore Idare releasemylefthandfromitsgriponthepipe.Itrisesofitsownvolitionandbrushesacrossmyforehead:coldsweat.Mywholebackfeelsequallyclammy.Fear?IseemtobeseeingtheCommander’sfacethroughafog.

It’sthesmokefromthehelmsman’sstationstillhangingintheroom,althoughthesmolderinghasstopped.There’sasourtasteinmymouthandadullpressuresomewhereinmyhead.Iholdmybreath;itonlymakesthepressureworse.Anymoment and it’ll be time again—thedestroyerwill have completed its

circle.Thepackofhoundshastograntusthisbriefrespitewhethertheywanttoornot.There’s theAsdicagain.Twoor three sharp rattlesofpebbles.Acoldhand

creepsundermycollarandrunsdownmyback.Ishudder.The pressure inmy head becomes unbearable.What now?Why is nothing

happening? Every whisper has died away. The condensation pitter-patters atsteady one-second intervals. Silently I count them. At twenty-two the blowlands,doublingmeoverwithmyheadcrumpledagainstmychest.AmIdeaf?Iseethefloorplatesdancing,butit’ssecondsbeforeIheartheir

metallic clatter, mixed with a yowling, groaning sound and a high-pitchedscreech.Thepressurehull!Itcan’tbeanythingelse.Theboatheavesandpitchesintherearingeddies.Menstaggeragainstoneanother.Anotherdoubleblast.Theboatgroans.Clatteringscrapingsounds.TheTommiesarebeingeconomical.Nomorecarpeting—instead,alwaystwo

bombsatatime,probablysetfordifferentdepths.Idarenotrelaxmymuscles—thehammerlandsagainwithenormousforce.Agurgling,coughinggaspquiteclosetometurnsintoamoan.Soundsasif

someone has been hit. It confuses me momentarily, but then reality reassertsitself:don’tbecrazy,noonegetsshotdownhere.The OldMan has got to think up something new. No chance of sneaking

away.TheAsdicwon’tletusgo.They’vegotfirst-classmensittingupthereatthe controls, and they’re not easily bluffed.Howmuch time dowe have left?HowmuchdotheTommiesneedtocircle?Luckyforusthattheycan’tdroptheirbombsoverboardwhenevertheywant.

Theyhavetoberunningatfullspeedbeforetheyfire.IfthosebastardscouldusetheirAsdic tosneakup rightover theboatbeforedropping theircans, thiscatandmousegamewouldhavebeenoverlongago.Asitis,theyhavetoattackathighspeedsoasnottoblowthemselvesoutofthewaterwhentheirbombsgooff.What’s theOldManup tonow? It’smakinghimfrown. I can tell from the

wayhisbrowsaretwitchingthathe’sdeepinconcentration.Howlongwillhego

onwaiting?Canhepulloffanotherlast-minuteswervetoescapetheadvancingdestroyer?—and in the right direction?—at the right speed?—and the rightdepth?It’shigh timeheopenedhismouthandgaveanorder.Orhashegivenup?

Throwninthesponge?Suddenlyasoundlikecanvasbeingripped.TheCommander’svoicecrackles

outatthesamemoment:“Bail!—Harda-port!Andgunthosegoddammotors!”Theboat leapsforward.Thenoiseof thebilgepumpisdrownedin theroar

that fills the sea around us.Men stagger and clutch the pipes. The OldMandoesn’tbudge.Thenavigatorclingstohistable.The OldMan’s gamble suddenly dawns onme. He’s ordered us to hold a

straightcourse,eventhoughwe’vebeenspotted.Anewwrinkle.Avariationhehasn’ttriedontheTommiesbefore.Obvious:TheCommanderofthedestroyerwasn’t born yesterday. He doesn’t come rushing blindly to the spot wherethey’ve located us. They know our tricks. They know that we know they’reattacking;theyknowthatweknowtheycan’tusetheirAsdicathighspeed,thatwe’lltrytoescapetheirlineofattackandalsochangedepth.Whetherwefeinttoport or to starboard,whetherweheadupor down is something they canonlyguessat.Theyhavetorelyonluck.AndsotheOldManstopsplayingtricksforonceandsimplyholdshiscourse

anddepthuntilthenextdrop.Bluffanddoublebluff.Andjustwhenyouthinkyou’relucky—bang!Yougetituptheass!“Time?”askstheCommander.“01.30hours,”thenavigatorreplies.“Really?”There’sastonishmentinhisvoice.Evenheseemstobefindingthe

danceatrifledrawnout.“Mostunusual,”hemurmurs.“Buttheyprobablywanttobeabsolutelysure.”Forawhilenothingstirs.TheOldManordersusdeeper.Thendeeperstill.“Time.”“01.45hours!”Unlessmyearsarereallyplayingtricksonme,eventhecompassmotorhas

been shut off. Not a sound in the boat. Only the pitterpatter of condensationtickingofftheseconds.

Have we made it? How far have we gone in a quarter of an hour’s silentrunning?Then the stillness isbrokenagainby thehideousnoises that theOldMancalls“creakinginthebeams”:Oursteelcylinderisbeingbrutallytestedforresistance by the pressure at these depths. The steel skin is bulging inwardbetweentheribs.Theinteriorwoodworkgroans.We’re down at 650 feet again, more than twice the shipyard guaranty,

creeping along through the blackness at a speed of four knots with this vastcolumnofwatersittingontopofus.Operating the hydroplanes becomes a balancing trick. If the boat sinks any

lower, its tortured fabric may no longer be able to withstand the externalpressure.Amatterof inches couldbe crucial. Is theOldMancountingon theTommiesnotknowingourmaximumdivingdepth?Weourselvesnevermentionthismagic number in feet but say, “Three times r plus sixty.”An incantation.Could the Tommies really not know how much r is? Every stoker knows;probablyfiftythousandGermansdo,alltold.Noreportsfromtheoperator.Ican’tbelievewe’veescaped.Thebastardsare

probably lying in wait, engines stopped. They know that they were almostdirectlyaboveus.Theonlythingtheycouldn’tcalculatewasourdepth,andtheOldManhastakenextrememeasuresaboutthat.TheChiefmoveshisheadbackandforthuneasily.Nothingseemstorasponhisnervessomuchasthecreakinginthewoodwork.Twodetonations.Bearable.Thegurglingiscutshortatastroke.Butourbilge

pumpkeeps going for several secondsmore!Theymust have heard the damnthing.You’dthinksomeonecouldbuildquieterones.The longer we remain at these depths, themore tormenting the thought of

howthinoursteelhullis.Wearen’tarmor-plated.Allwehavetowithstandthepressureof thewaterand the shockwavesof theexplosions isamere inchofsteel.Thecircularribs—twoeverythreefeet—areall thatgiveour thin-walledtubethemeagerpowersofresistancethatenableustostayalivedownhere.“They’re taking one helluva time to get ready,”whispers theOldMan.We

mustbedealingwithsomereallycleverbastardsifevenheadmitsit.Itrytopicturewhat’sgoingonupthere.Ihavemyownmemoriestohelpme,

forafterallit’snotsolongsinceIwasoneofthehunters,onadestroyermyself.It’s the same game on both sides except that the Tommies have their highlyperfected Asdic and we have nothing but our sound gear. It’s the differencebetweenelectronicsandacoustics.

Listen—make a run—drop the bombs—circle—listen—make a run—dropmorebombs—trysettingthemforshallowdepths—thenfordeeperones—thenthestaract: thespread—launchat leastadozencanisterssimultaneously—likedrumfire.ThesamethingtheTommiesdo.Eachoneofourdepthchargescontainedfourhundredpoundsofamatol.Soa

dozenbombshadmore than two tonsofhighexplosive.Whenwehadagooddirectional indication on the S-apparatus, all the ejectors were fired at once:starboard,port,andaft.IcanstillheartheCaptain’svoice:“Notverysporting,thiskingofthing.”Veryoddthatnothingishappening.Markingtime—givenup?PerhapsIcan

ease the tension inmymuscles.But careful—mustn’t jump if it begins again.Annihilation by whirlpool, with time out now and again. Fear of the nextonslaughtbeginstogrow.Quick—thinkaboutsomethingelse.ThetimewemadesonarcontactclosetothesouthwestcornerofEngland.On

the destroyer Karl Galster—nothing but guns and machines. The frightenedvoice from the starboardwingof thebridge: “Torpedo trail threepoints to thestarboard!”Thevoicestillringsinmyears:hoarse,yetpiercing.Unforgettable,ifIlivetobeahundred,The trail of bubbles—crystal clear.An eternity before the pale track of our

wakefinallycurvedtooneside.I have to swallow. Fear grips me by the throat—double fear—both

remembered and actual. My thoughts race. Must be careful not to get themmixed up. “Torpedo trail three points to starboard.” That was on the KarlGaister. The overpowering, mind-numbing tension. And then the voice ofsalvation.“Torpedotrailpassedastern!”Justendure,lastouteachround.Howlonghasitbeensofar?Istilldon’tdare

move.ThistimeI’moneofthehunted.Trappedinthedeep.Onaboatwithnomoretorpedoesinitstubes.Defenseless,evenifwemanagetosurface.HowtheCaptainoftheKarlGalsterpulleditoff!Hemusthavegotclearbya

matterofinches.Fullrudderandenginesgoingfullspeeduntiltheshipswungroundparalleltothetorpedo’scourse.Thevibrations!Asifshewereabouttoflytopieces.Andthentheshrillbell:awarningforthemenintheengineroomtoexpectanexplosion.Thenthetorpedoofficer’svoiceontheship’sphone:“Firetwo charges!” And the breathless waiting, until a double blowmade the shipshiver in every seam.Nothing to be seen but twowhite, shimmering splashes

astern,toleftandrightofthefadingglimmerofourwake—asiftwogreatlumpsofrockhadfallenintothewater.Thentheorder:“Harda-port!”AndtheCaptainreducedspeedsothatthemen

belowinthebellyoftheshipcouldgetamoreaccuratebearing:thesametacticsusedbytheTommies,preciselythesame.Fullaheadagain—aperceptibleleapforward—andofftowardtheechowe’dpickeduponoursonar.TheCaptainorderedaspreadtobedroppedatthepointwheretheequipment

reactedmoststrongly.Canistersallsetforthesameshallowdepth.Short,sharpthunderclaps. Then a rumbling as ifwe’d hit amine. I can still see the huge,gleaming white geysers standing poised majestically for seconds before theycollapsedinspray.Andthefoamthatcameblowingoveruslikewetcurtains.TheOldMankeepsstaringatthemanometers,asifhiseyescouldcontrolthe

playoftheneedles.Buttheneedlesdon’tmove.NoAsdiceither.Thesoundmanlooks like someone lost in piousmeditation. Iwonderwhy they’re not on themove up there, why nothing is happening. At four knots per hour we can’tpossiblyhaveescapedthenetoftheirdirectionfinder.“Steertwohundredtwentydegrees,”theOldManorders.Moresilence.“Heading two hundred twenty degrees,” comes the helmsman’s whispered

responseafteraconsiderablelag.“Propellersoundsbearingtwentydegrees,fading,”isthenexthushedreport.

ItbringsamockinggrintotheOldMan’sface.IputmyselfbackonthebridgeoftheKarlGalster:palemoonlightoncold,

expressionlessfaces.Nomatterhowhardwestared,nosignoftheenemy.Justorders,thesplashofthecanisters,thethirdoftheexplosions.Cross-bearingsandnewdrops.Seethingwhitepatchesdisruptingthepalefiligreeofourwake.Andthenanoilslickontheblackwater.OnceagainIseethesharply-etched,

thinwhite finger of the searchlight pointing it out.The ship swings toward it.There’snomercy:“Portbombsaway!Starboardbombsaway!”Allgunstrainedontheoilslick,muzzleslowered.Icanstillseeallthefishwithrupturedairbladdersfloatingonthesurfaceof

thewater in the beam of the searchlight. Fish andmore fish—but no sign ofwreckage,onlythefleckofoil.Suddenlyoursoundequipmentfellsilent.No time for a search. Cruisers might appear at any moment and bar our

passagehome.TheCaptainhadtoheadforBrestwhetherhewantedtoornot.

Andthatwaswhenhesaid,“Notverysporting,thiskindofthing.”Theoperator’s voice suddenlypenetratesmyconsciousness. If I understood

himcorrectly, thedestroyer is swinging towardus.So they’re attackingagain.Theywerejustplayingusonaline.Catandmousestuff.Nohopeofescape.Wedidn’tfoolthem.Theoperatorisgrimacingagain.Istartcountingsilently,andthentheblows

begin,oneaftertheother.We’reflungaround,jolted.Thewholeseaisasingleexplodingpowderkeg.Andagainthegushingroarthatwillnotstop,andmorepropellernoises!But

why no pause between them?Where are the propellers coming from again soquickly? That’s the easygoing paddling of slow screws, not the quick ringingwhirlwithitswicked,whistling,underlyinghowlthatindicatestopspeed.In the back of my mind I realize what’s been going on: this can’t be the

destroyerthatattackedusfirst—shecouldn’tbebacksosoon.Sheneedstimetocircle.Afterall,shecan’tbecomingatussternfirst…There’snodelayaboutthenextbombs.Theycomeintriplets.Thelighthasgoneout.Someonecallsforemergencylight.TheChiefshines

thebeamofhispocketflashlightonthedepthmanometer.Hedoesn’tdarelethiseyes leave the dial for so much as a second:We’re so deep that any furtherdescentisdangerous.“Reportsoundbearings!”“Ninepointstoport,”theoperatorreplies.“Harda-starboard,steerthreehundredtendegrees.”TheCommanderistryingtomakeuseofournarrowsilhouette,exactlyashe

didonthesurface.HewantstopresentoursterntotheenemysoastogivetheAsdicbeamsthesmallestpossiblesurfacetoworkon.“Propellersoundsbearingtwohundreddegrees—gettingstronger!”Thedirectionalbeamhitsusagain.I’mrigid,totallyunabletorelax;myhead

willsooncracklikeglass.Myskullseemsunderthesameextremepressureasoursteelskin.Theslightesttouchnowwouldbetoomuch.Myheartbeatsringmagnifiedinmyears.Itryshakingmyhead,butthepoundinggoesonjustthesame.“Braceyourself,”Iwhispertomyself.Fearborderingonhysteriaseemstobe

literallydestroyingmymind.Yetatthesametimeit’ssharpeningmypowersof

perception.Iseeandfeeleverythinggoingonaroundmewithastoundingclarity.“Range?…Andwhat about the second sound?”TheOldMan’svoice isno

longerindifferent.So—Iwasn’tmaking it up.Damn, damn, anddouble damn, theOldMan’s

calm is gone.Was it the second sound that disconcerted him?But everythingdepends on him keeping a clear head. Instead of working with precisioninstruments he has to use his own system of perception, which is probablylocatedintheseatofhispants,orinhisstomach.He’spushedhiscapupandrunsthebackofhishandoverhisforehead.His

sauerkraut hair springs out from under the visor like stuffing out of a tornmattress.Hisforeheadisawashboardandhissweatastreamofbleach,Hebareshis teeth and snaps them sharply three times. In the silence it sounds like thefaintclickingofcastanets.My left leg isasleep.Pinsandneedles. I lift it cautiously.Themoment I’m

balancingonmyright leg,a seriesof frightfulexplosions rocks theboat.ThistimeIfindnohandholdandfallfulllengthtotheflooronmyback.PainfullyImanagetoturnover.Iforcemyarmsup,raisemyshoulders,and

managetogetonallfours,butkeepmyheaddownreadyforthenextblow,Ihearscreamsthatseemtobecomingfromalongwayoff.Waterbreach?Didn’t I just hear “waterbreach”? Is thatwhywe’re sinking

aft?Firstforward,nowaft.“Aftupten—bothE-motorsfullahead!”ThatwastheOldMan.Loudandclear.SoIhaven’tgonedeafafterall.Full

speedahead.Inthissituation!Isn’tthatmuchtooloud?Mygod,theboat’sstillshudderingandgroaningcontinuously.Soundsasifit’sbattlingitswaythroughanimmenselydeepgroundswell.Iwanttoliedownandhidemyheadinmyarms.No light. The crazy fear of drowning in the dark, unable to see the green-

whitetorrentofwaterasitcomesburstingintotheboat.Abeamdartsoverthewallsandfindsitsgoal:thedepthmanometer.Asharp

singingnotefromasternlikeacircularsaweatingintowood.Twoorthreemenshakethemselvesoutoftheirdaze.Ordersarehissed.AnotherbeamstrikestheOldMan’sface,whichlookslikeagraycardboardcutout,Thesternheavinessisgettingworse:Icanfeelitinmywholebody.HowlongwilltheOldMankeepthemotorsrunningfullspeed?Theroarofthedepthchargehaslongsincedied

away.Nowanyonecanhearus—anyoneinthebellyoftheshipupthere.Orcanthey?Certainlytheycaniftheirship’senginesarestopped.“Wherearethereports?”IheartheOldMangrowl.Icanfeelwithmyelbowthatthemanstandingslightlytotheleftinfrontof

meisshivering.Ican’tseewhoheis.Once again the old temptation to let myself slump down onto the floor.

Mustn’tgivein.Someonestumbles.“Silence!”theOldManhisses.It’snow that Inotice theE-motors areno longer runningat full speed.The

emergency lighting goes on. So that isn’t the Chief’s back over there—theSecondEngineer has taken over the hydroplanes. TheChief is nowhere to beseen.He’sprobablyasternforthemoment;allhellseemstohavebeenletloosebackthere.Theevilsawmill-shriekisunrelenting.But we’removing. Not on an even keel, to be sure, but at least we aren’t

sinking any deeper. So the pressure hullmust have held. And themotors areworking.Anoddscrapingsoundmakesmeliftmyhead. Itsounds likeacablebeing

dragged along outside. Sweep wires? But that’s impossible! They can’t beworkingwithsweepwiresatdepthslikethese.Perhapsit’ssomethingnew,somespecialkindofprobingimpulse.The scraping stops. In its placewehave the chirpingping-ping once again.

They’vegotus!Howlateisit?Ican’tmakeoutthehandsofmywatch.Probablytwoo’clock.“Bearingonehundredfortydegrees.Gettinglouder!”Again the vicious sound of the Asdic beam hitting the boat. Now it’s like

pebbles being shaken in a tin can—not even loud. But loud enough to sendvisionsofhorrordartingthroughmymind.Cascadesofblooddrippingoverthedivingtanks.Red-tingedwaves.Menclutchingwhiteragsinupliftedhands.I’mwellawareofwhatgoesonwhenaboatisforcedtothesurface.TheTommieswanttoseered,asmuchjuiceaspossible.Theyletflywitheverygunthey’vegot.Theymangle the towerwhilewepoor bastards are scramblingup into it;they smash the bridge to bits, make mincemeat of anything that moves,concentratingonthedivingtankssoastomakethegraywhaleblowthelastofitsair.Andthenramherdown!Usetheirsharpbowtoslashintotheboatwithahowlingscreech.Noonecanblamethem:Thereatlastistheenemyforwhom

they’ve been staring themselves blind—for days, weeks, months on end—thetreacheroustormentorwho’sdeniedthemamoment’speace,evenwhenhewashundredsofmiles away.They’veneverbeenable tobe sure for somuchas asecond that theyweren’t being spied upon from the trough of awave by thatPolyphemus eye. And here she is finally, the tarantula that drew blood. Thebloodlustwon’tsubsideuntilfifteenortwentymenhavebeenmurdered.Thepressurehullcreaks,crunches,andgratesagain.TheOldManhasbeen

takingusdeeperwithoutmybeingawareofit.TheChief’seyesaregluedtothedialofthemanometer,thenhesuddenlydartsaglanceattheOldMan,butthelatterbehavesasifhehasn’tnoticed.“Whatbearingnow?”“Twohundredeightydegrees—twohundredfifty-fivedegrees—twohundred

fortydegrees—gettinglouder!”“Harda-port!”theCommanderwhispersafterabriefpauseforthought,and

this time gives the change of course to the hydrophone operator aswell: “Tosoundroom:We’returningtoport!”Andasacommentaryforus,“Theusual!”Andthatsecondnoise?Perhaps they’ve long since changed places, I tell myself; perhaps the ship

above us isn’t the same one that attacked us with her guns. After all, escortvessels eachhavedifferentduties,Thedestroyer that firedonuswas carryingoutflankprotection.Shemostprobablyturnedoverthetaskoffinishingusofftoasweepersometimeago.Wehavenoideawho’sattackingus.It’s fishingwithdynamite:Ripopentheairbladdersof thefishso that they

floatup from thedepths—ourairbladdersareourdiving tanks.The fishhavetheirs in their bellies; with us the great air bladders are outside, not evenpressure-resistant.ForafractionofasecondIseeahugedriftinggrayfishthathasbeendriventothesurface,whitebellyup,rollingheavilyfromsidetosideinthewaves…Thisinfernaldrippingcondensation!Pitter-patter—pitter-patter—everysingle

damndropsoundslikeahammerblow.FinallytheOldManturnshisheadtowardus:Hisbodydoesn’tmoveaninch.

Hesimplytwistshisheadasfarasitwillgoontheturntableofhisfurcollarandgrins. As if invisible surgical hooks were drawing the corners of his mouth

diagonally upward—a trifle crookedly, sowe can see a fraction of an inch ofwhitetoothintheleft-handcorner.What’sgoingtohappennow?Theycan’thavegivenupandcalleditaday.A

day!What time is it anyhow?About 04.00?OrOnly 02.15? They’ve had ushookedsince22.53.Butwhatwasthatsecondsound?Completemystery.Doestheoperatorstillhavenonewbearings?Herrmann’smouthlookssewn

shut.He’sthrusthisfaceoutofthesoundroombutforoncehiseyesareopen—his face looks empty, as if he’d died and someone had neglected to close hiseyes.TheOldMan’scontemptuousgrinhasbecomeatracemorehuman,nolonger

quitesodeadly.Therelaxationinhisfaceislikealaying-onofhands.Takeupyourbedandwalk!Yes,walk—howaboutapleasurestrollaroundtheship—onthepromenadedeck.Thatwouldmakeforanamusinginterludenow.Butnooneeverconsideredourneedforfreedomofmovement;wehavenomoreroomthantigersinatravelingcage.IsuddenlyseethetigercageonwheelsatRavennaBeach,thatfilthywagon

with iron bars. The giant cats, limp and thirsty in the blazing midday heat,crowded together in three square feet of shade along the back wall. On thegroundimmediatelyinfrontofthecage,somefishermenhadlaidoutdeadtunafish: gleaming steelblue projectiles, almost as slim as torpedoes. The fathorseflieswerealreadyatthem.Theygofortheeyesfirstwithtunafish,justasthey didwith Swoboda. Accompanying thismiserable sight was the tattoo ofAfricandrumming,asharp,rhythmicstaccatothatwassentsweepingacrosstheemptycourtyard fromadistantcorner.The sourceof theAfricanmusicwasadark-brownmanintornoverallswhowasthrustingthinslabsoficeaboutthreefeet long into a metal box; inside which was a cylinder studded with spikes,rotatingmadly. It threw the ice into the air, snappedat it, threw it into the airagain,bitoncemore.Hurledandcrunchedandgrounduptheslabsoficetothethudandrollofdrums.Thisbarbaricuproar,thedeadtunafish,thefivetigers—tongues hanging out—in their inferno: that’s all I can remember of RavennaBeach.Softly,softlytheOldManordersachangeofcourse.Thehelmsmanpressesa

button:adullclick.Sowe’redoublingback,oratleastturningalittle,Ifonlywehadsomeideaofwhatthislatestpausemeans.Theyprobablywant

tocradleusintoafeelingofsecurity.

ButwhynomoreAsdicbeams?Firsttwoofthem,thennothingatall!Havewemanaged to sneak away after all? Or can’t theAsdic reach us at

thesedepths?Arethelayersofthewaterfinallyprotectingus?In the highly charged silence the Commander whispers, “Pencil and paper

overhere.”Thenavigatorisslowtograspthattherequestisbeingmadetohim.“Supposewemightaswellgetaradioreportready,”murmurstheOldMan.Thenavigator isunpreparedfor this.Hereachesawkwardlyforapad that’s

lyingonthecharttable,andhisfingersgropeforapencilwithblinduncertainty.“Takeitdown,” theCommanderorders.“Scoredhitoneight thousandGRT

and five thousand five hundred GRT—heard to sink—Probable hit on eightthousandGRT—’Well,goon.Writeitdown!”Thenavigatorbendsoverhistable,TheSecondWatchOfficerturnsaround,hismouthopenwithastonishment.When the navigator is finished and swivels around again, his face is as

expressionless as ever; it betrays nothing at all. This doesn’t cost him mucheffort: nature has endowed him with wooden facial muscles. Nor is thereanything to be read in his eyes, they lie so deep in the shadow of his brows.“Afterall,that’salltheywanttoknow,”saystheOldManinalowvoice.Thenavigator holds the slip of paper in the air, arm extended. I approach him ontiptoeandhandthepaperontotheoperator,who’smeanttopreserveitcarefullysothatitwillbereadyintheeventweshouldeverbeabletotransmitagain.TheOldMan’sjustmurmuringtohimself,“…thelasthit…”whentheseais

shakenbyfourexplosions.He shrugs his shoulders, makes a contemptuous gesture, and grumbles to

himself,“Ahwell!”Andafterawhile,“Precisely!”You’dthinkhewasbeingforcedagainsthiswilltolistentotheinsistentself-

justificationsofadrunkard.Butwhen theroarebbsaway,hesaysnotaword;thesilenceagainbecomestense.The operator reports his figures in a subdued tone, halfwhispered, like the

formulaforaninvocation:he’spickedupaclearbearingagain.NoAsdicnoises!Imockmyselfbythinking,“Ourfriendshaveturnedtheir

Asdicofftospareournerves…”Themoon—thefuckingmoon!

If someone unexpectedly came through the hatch right now, he’d beastounded to see us standing around like idiots, not uttering a syllable.Speechlessidiotswouldbetherightdescription.Asnatchoflaughterwellsupinme;Ichokeitback.Unexpectedlythroughthehatch!Somejoke!“Time?”“02.30hours,”theCommanderisinformedbythenavigator.“It’sbeensometime,”theCommanderacknowledges.Ihavenoideawhat’snormal.Howlongcanwekeepthisup?What’sthestate

of our oxygen supply? Is the Chief already releasing precious gas from hiscylinderssothatwecanbreathe?Thenavigatorisholdinghisstopwatch,followingitsjerkingsecondhandas

attentivelyasifourlivesdependedonhisobservations.Hashebeenkeepingadead-reckoningchartofourdive,allourattemptedevasions?Theymustmakeacrazypattern.TheOldMan isuneasy.Howcanhe trust thisquiet?Hecan’t let hismind

wanderthewayIcan.Forhimthere’sonlytheenemyandhistactics.“Well?”hedrawlsexpectantly, theword long-drawn-out andderisive, ashe

glancestheatricallyupward.Iwonderwhyhedoesn’tadd,“Ready,darling?”Hegrinsatme,headtooneside.Itrytogrinbackbutfeelmysmilestiffen.

Mycheekmuscleshardenoftheirownaccord.“We really got them, didn’t we?” he says softly, and stretches himself

comfortably against the periscope housing. You’d think he was savoring theattack in retrospect. “Amazing, the way the hatches burst. Sounded reallyfabulous.Thefirstonemusthavesunkdamnfast.”“Deathrattle.”JustwheredidIgetthatfrom?MusthavebeenoutofsomePR

report.Thatkindof inflated rhetoriccouldn’tcome fromanywhereelse:deathrattle.“Dying”—afunnyword:everyoneseems toavoid it.Nooneever“dies” in

obituaries.TheLord takesuntoHimself.Thedeardeparted enters into eternalpeace, putting an end to his earthly pilgrimage—but there’s no dying. Thestraightforwardverb“todie”isavoidedliketheplague.Silence in the boat.Only the soft shiftingof the hydroplanes, andnowand

thenachangeofcourse.

“Propellersoundsgettinglouderfast,”reportstheoperator.There’stheAsdicagain! This time it sounds like someone writing on a slate with chalk, butpressingmuchtoohard.“Soundsgettinglouder.”I notice the sausages hanging from the ceiling.All coatedwithwhite. Isn’t

doing them any good, the stench and the damp.But salamiwill stand a gooddeal. Certainly still edible. Smoked meat too. Dead flesh—living flesh. Mybloodraces.Myearsrespond.Loudbeatingofmyheart:they’vegotus!“Time?”“02.40hours!”Ayowlingsound!Whatwasthat?Andwasitinsidetheboat?Oroutside?Adefinitebearing!Thedestroyerwiththewhiteboneinherteeth!Comingat

topspeed!TheOldManputs his feet up andunbuttons his vest.Hemight bemaking

himselfcomfortabletotellajokeortwo.Iwonderwhatbecomesofsunkenboats.Dotheyjuststaythere,crumpledup,

a grotesque armada, perpetually suspended at a depth where the watercorrespondspreciselytotheweightofthecollapsedlumpofsteel?Ordotheygoonbeingcompresseduntiltheysinkthousandsuponthousandsoffeetanddroptothebottom?ImustasktheCommandersometime.Afterall,he’sonintimateterms with pressure and displacement. He must know. Rate of descent,twentyfivemilesperhour—Ioughttoknowtoo.The Old Man grins his usual slightly crooked grin. But his eyes roam

watchfully. He gives the helmsman amuttered order: “Hard a-port, steer twohundredseventydegrees!”“Destroyerattacking!”theoperatorreports.IkeepmyeyesfixedontheOldMan.Don’tlooknow.Thewhitebone…they’recomingforusattopspeed!We’restillasdeepaswecango.Amoment’ssuspendedanimation.Thentheoperatormakesaface.Nodoubt

aboutwhatthatmeans.Thesecondsstretchout:thebombsareontheirway.Breathedeep,tenseyour

muscles.Aseriesofshatteringblowsalmostthrowsmeoffmyfeet.

“Doyoumind!”theOldManexclaims.Someoneshouts,“Breachabovethedepthgauge!”“Notsoloud,”snapstheCommander.It’s the same thing as last time.Aweak spot.A jet ofwater, stiff as a rod,

shootsstraightacross thecontrolroom,dividingtheOldMan’sfacein two; inonehalf,hismouthgapinginsurprise,intheother,hisraisedeyebrowsandthedeep-curvingcreasesinhisforehead.A shrillwhistling and clattering. Incomprehensible shoutingback and forth.

Mybloodseems tobe turning to ice. Icatch the flutteringglanceof theBibleScholar.“I’llfixit!”Thecontrol-roommate.He’sat thepointof theleakinasingle

bound.SuddenlyI’moverwhelmedwithrage:goddamswine!Allwecandoiswait

forthebastardstodrownusinourownboatlikerats.Thecontrol-roommateisdripping.He’sturnedoffsomevalveorother.The

streamfaltersandsplashesinacurveontothefloorplates.I notice that the boat has become stern heavy again. The Chief takes

advantageofthenextexplosiontotrimforward,Theboatveryslowlyreturnstoanevenkeel.That jet of water shooting into the boat under unimaginable pressure has

shaken me to the core; a foretaste of catastrophe. Only finger-thick, buthorrifyingenough.Worsethantheworststormwave.Moreblows.UnlessI’mtotallyconfused,someofthemenhavegatheredunderthetower

hatch.Asiftherewereanypoint!It hasn’t gotten to the point yet where we have to surface. The OldMan,

sitting theresorelaxed,doesn’t lookatallas thoughhewereat theendofhistether,Butthegrinhasgonefromhisface.The operator whispers, “More propeller sounds at one hundred twenty

degrees.”“Nowwe’reinforit!”theOldManmutters.There’snodoubtaboutit.“What’sitspresentbearing—thesecondsound?”Hisvoicehasbecomeurgent.Yetmorecomputationstobemadeinhishead.

Areportfromastern:“Dieselairvalvesmakingwaterbadly!”TheOldManexchangesaglancewiththeChief,whodisappearsaft.TheOldMantakesoverthehydroplaries.“Forwardupten,”Ihearhimorderinamurmur.Ibecomeawareofastrongpressureinmybladder.Thesightofthestreamof

watermusthavepromptedit.ButIdon’tknowwhereIcanrelievemyself.TheChief reappears in the control room.Aft, there havebeen twoor three

breaksaround the flanges.Hisheadseems tohavedevelopedanervous tic.Aleak—andhecan’tpump: theenemyup therehaveseen to that.Theauxiliarypumpmustbekaputanyway.“Glasscaseoftheauxiliarybilgepumpcracked,”Ihearamidtheroaringchaos.Theglass in thewatergaugehasbroken, too.It’smadness.TheOldManordersbothmotorsfullaheadagain.Allourhigh-speedevasive

maneuvers are doing is reducing the capacity of our batteries.TheOldMan’sgamblingwithoursupplies.Ifwehavenomorebatteryjuice, ifwerunoutofcompressed air or oxygen, the boat has to surface. The game will be up—nothingmorewecando…TheChiefhasblowncompressedairintothedivingcells again and again in order to give us the buoyancy he could no longerachievewiththebilgepumpalone.Compressed air has an extremely high market value: Given our present

circumstances, we’re in no position to start manufacturing more. Using thecompressorisoutofthequestion.Andhowabouttheoxygen?Howlongcanwegoonbreathingthestenchthat

permeatestheboat?Thesoundmangivesonereportafteranother.ItoocanheartheAsdicrattle

again.But it’s stillnot reallyclearwhetherwehave twopursuersnow inplaceof

one.TheOldManpushesahandunderhiscap.Heprobablydoesn’thavemuch

graspofthesituationeither.Hydrophonereportsgivepracticallynoinformationabouttheenemy’sintentions.Or could they in turn be fooling us with their own noises? Technically it

wouldbepossible.Ourhavingtorelycompletelyontheoperator’sperceptionsispreposterous.

Thedestroyer seems tobemakingawidecircle.No furtherwordabout thesecond series of noises, but this couldmean that a second ship has just beenlyingtheresilentforsometime.The pause continues. The First Watch Officer glances round uncertainly.

Crumpledface.Sharpnose,whiteaboutthenostrils.The control-room mate is trying to pee into a big can. He fumbles about

laboriouslytryingtogethiscockoutthroughhisleathertrousers.Then—without warning—a crash. The half-filled can drops from Tin-ear

WillieIsenberg’shandandspillsontothefloorplates.Theplaceinstantlystinksofurine.I’msurprisedtheOldMandoesn’tstartcursing.I breathe very shallowly so as not to encounter the steel band around my

chest,not toinhaletoomuchofthestench.Theair is terrible: thehotsmellofdieselsrunningatfullspeed…thestinkoffiftymen…oursweat—thesweatoffear. God knows what else has gone into this miasma of odors. Now the airsmellsofshittoo.Someonemusthavelostcontrol.Sweatandpissandshitandbilge—unendurable.I can’t help thinking of the poor bastards in the stern. They can’t see the

Commander,drawcomfortfromhispresence.Theyarereallycagedin.Noonetosignalwhentheinfernaldinisgoingtobreakoutagain.I’dratherdiethanbestuckbacktherebetweenthereeking,hotengineblocks.Soitdoesmatter,afterall,whereone’sbattlestationis.Evenherethereare

theprivilegedandtheunderprivileged.Hackerandhiscrewworkingin thebowcompartmentat thetubes—noone

tells themourcourseeither.Theyhearneither theorders to thehelmsmannorthe signals to the engine room.Theydon’tknowwhat the soundman reports.Theyhavenonotionwhichwaywe’removing—orwhetherwe’removingatall.It’sonlywhenanexplosionsuddenlyhurls theboatupwardorslams itdeeperdownthattheyfeelitintheirstomachs;andifwegoverydeepindeedtheycanhearthetelltale“creakingofthebeams.”Threedetonations.Thistimethegiganticsledgehammercamefrombelow.I

catch a glimpse of the depthmanometer in the beamof a flashlight. It jumpsbackwar’d.Icanfeelitinthepitofmystomach.Wearebeinghurledupwardinahigh-speedelevator.If the boat is five hundred feet or so down, the pressurewaves fromdepth

charges are supposed to be at their worst if they go off another hundred feet

belowthat.Howdeeparewenow?Sixhundredfeet.Thereisnoflexiblesteelunderneathus.Nothingreallytoprotecttheengines!

Theyarethemostvulnerabletoexplosionsfrombelow.Sixmorebombs.Again so closeunder our keel that I can feel the twisting

force inmy knee joints. I’m standing on one end of a seesawwhile someonedropsblocksofstoneontheotherend.Theneedlejerksbackwardagain.Upanddown—justwhattheTommieswant.Thisattackhascostthematleastadozenbombs.Theremustbeamassoffish

upthere,floatingontheirsides,theirairbladderstornapart.TheTommiescouldcollectthembythenetful.Somethingfreshforthegalley.I try to takelong,regularbreaths,ForagoodfiveminutesIbreathedeeply,

then four bombs explode. All astern. The sound man reports a decrease instrength.I concentrate on imagining how one could reproduce all of this, this entire

scene,inpapiermâchéforthestage.Everythingveryexact.Scaleonetoone.Itwouldbeeasy:justremovetheportwall—that’swheretheaudiencewouldsit.No elevated stage. Everything face to face. Direct view of the hydroplanestation.Shifttheskyperiscopeupfronttogivethewholethingperspective.Ifixinmymindthepositionsandattitudesoftheactors:theOldManleaningagainsttheperiscopeshaft—solid,heavy-set,inhisraggedsweater,hisfurlinedvest,hissalt-flecked boots with their thick cork soles, the stubborn tangle of hairescaping from under his old battered capwith its tarnished trim.Color of hisbeard:sauerkraut,slightlyrottensauerkraut.The hydroplane operators in their rubber jackets—in the heavy unyielding

folds of their foul-weather gear—are two stone blocks that might have beenhewnoutofdarkbasaltandpolished.TheChief inhalfprofile:olive-green shirtwith rolled-up sleeves, crumpled

darkolive-greenlinentrousers.Sneakers.Valentinohairslickedback.Thinasawhippet.Expressionlessasawaxdoll.Onlyhisjawmusclesconstantlyworking.Notasyllable,onlytheplayofthejaw.TheFirstWatchOfficerhas turnedhisback to theaudience.Onesenseshe

doesn’twanttobeobservedbecauseheisn’tincompletecontrolofhimself.Notmuch of the SecondWatchOfficer’s face to be seen.He’s too heavily

muffledup,standingmotionless,hiseyesdartingeverywhere,asifsearchingfor

anescapehatch—asifthey’retryingtogetaway,tobefreeofhim,toabandonhim,leavehimeyeless,whilestandingrigidbytheperiscope.The navigator keeps his head down and pretends to be checking his

stopwatch.Only someminor soundeffects: a lowhummingand theoccasionaldripof

wateronthemetalplates.All easy to reproduce. Minutes of silence, complete immobility. Only the

constanthumandthedripping.Justkeepeveryonestandingtherefrozen—untiltheaudiencebecomesuneasy.Threedetonations,nodoubtastern.Thenavigatorapparentlyhasanewmethodofkeepingscore.Nowhedraws

the fifthmarkdiagonally through the first four.That saves spaceandmakes iteasier to follow.He’salreadyonhis sixth row. I can’t remember justhowourconscientiousscorekeepertalliedthelastsalvos.TheOldMan goes on calculating uninterruptedly: our course, the enemy’s

course, an escape course. With every report from the sound room, the basicfactorsinhiscalculationschange.What’shedoingnow?Willhehaveussteerstraightahead?No,thistimehe’s

tryinganotherturn:harda-port.Let’shopehe’smade the rightchoice, that theCommanderof thedestroyer

hasn’t decided on port too—or on starboard, should he be steering toward us.That’sthewayitis:Idon’tevenknowwhetherthedestroyerisattackingfromforwardorastern.Thefiguresthattheoperatoriscallingoutarebecomingjumbledinmyhead.“Droppingcans!”Theoperatorhasheardthesplashofmorebombshittingthe

surfaceofthewater.Iholdtight.“Man the bilge pump,” the Old Man orders, enunciating with great care

althoughtheexplosionhasn’tyetcome.Thenoise!Butitdoesn’tseemtobothertheOldMan.Awhirlpoolofdetonations.“Saturationpattern!”hesays.Ifitdoesn’tworkwithsinglechargesorwithseriesofthem,theysimplylay

downacarpet.

Unshrinkable!With half my mind I ask myself where I dug up the English word

“unshrinkable.”FinallyIseeitmachine-stitched,ingoldthread,onthelabelofmyswimmingtrunks,underthewords“purewool.”A carpet! A spool begins unwinding in my head: hand-knotted, exquisite

Afghandesign—flyingcarpet—HarunalRashid—Orientalbullshit!“Much too good for us!” sneers theOldMan. In theworst of the noise he

orders the speed increased. “Now they’re reloading!” Contemptuously, heexplains the absence of new detonations. “The more you use, the more youlose.”Agoldenmaxim,likesomethingstraightoutof themessroomcalendar.The

quintessential lesson of a dozen depth-charge attacks: “Themore you use, themoreyoulose.”The Commander orders us up. What does that mean? Are we going to

surface?Isthenextordertobe:“Prepareescapegear!”?AtlanticKiller—atitleforafilm.Showahairlinecrackinanegg.That’sallit

wouldtakeonoureggshell—justonecrack.Theenemycanleavetheseatodotherest.The efforts we used to make to get rid of garden snails. The black shiny

giants,thenightsnails,wewouldcollectinbucketstobeemptiedintotoiletsandflushedaway.Drownedinthecesspool—thatdidthejob.Steppingonthemisasdisgustingaschoppingthemup.Anexplosionofgreenslime.Aschildrenweplayedthecremationgame.Awaywiththehearthfender,little

pailsofrainwormsdumpedontotheredcoals—andinasecondthewormsweretransformedwithaloudhissintotwistsofblackash.Rabbits.Youholdthemfirmlywithyourlefthandandgivethemablowon

the back of the neck. Neat and clean: only a little twitching—as thoughelectrocuted.Carpyouholdwithyourlefthandsidewaysontheboardandgivethem a heavy blow on the snout with a stick. It makes a crunching sound.Quicklyslitopentheirstomachs.Carefulwiththegallbladder,thegallmustn’tspillout.TheswollenairbladdersgleamlikeChristmastreeornaments.Funnythingaboutcarp:evenwhenthey’recutintwothere’sstilllifeinthem.Itusedtofrightenusaschildrenwhenthehalveswentonjerkingforhoursonend.I could never bringmyself to kill doves, even though it’s easy to do. You

simply tear their headsoff.Clamp thembetween index andmiddle fingers—a

smalltwistingmotionandcrackandaway!Roostersandhensyouholdhighonthewingswithyourlefthand,directlyundertheshoulderblades,asitwere.Andthenquicklypressthemsidewaysontheblockandguillotinethemwiththeax.Letthembleed,butbesuretokeepafirmhold,orthey’llflyawaywithouttheirheads.Abloodymess.Newsounds:propellernoises—ahighwhistling,audiblethroughouttheboat.

Iseethenewcontrol-roomassistanttremblingallover.He’sslumpeddownoverthewaterdistributor.Someoneelse—whoisit?—sitsdownonthefloorplates.Doubledup,adarklumpoffleshandfear.Theothersarehuddledinavarietyofpostures,making themselves as small as possible.As thoughhidingwoulddoanygoodnow.OnlytheOldMansitsinhisusualway,casualandrelaxed.Anewdetonation!MyleftshoulderhitssomethingsohardthatInearlycry

out.Twomore.“Start pumping!” the Old Man orders above the roar. We can’t lose the

destroyer.Damnation,wecan’tshakeheroff!TheChiefstaresglassilyoutofthecornersofhiseyes.Helooksasifhecan

hardlywait for thenext seriesofbombs.Perverse:hewants tobail, and todothatheneedsthebombs.The boat can no longer be heldwithout continuous bailing.Bilge pumpon

whenthere’sroaringoutside,bilgepumpoffwhenitstops.Againandagain—onandoff—onandoff.Waiting—waiting—waiting.Stillnothing?Nothingatall?Iopenmyeyesbutkeepthemfirmlyfixedon

thefloorplates.Adoubleblow.Paininthebackofmyneck.Whatwasthat?Cries—thefloor

shudders—thefloorplatesjump—thewholeboatvibrates—thesteelhowlslikeadog.Thelightshavegoneagain.Whocriedout?“Permissiontoblowtanks?”IheartheChief’svoiceasthoughthroughwool.“No!”ThebeamoftheChief’spocketflashlightwaversovertheCommander’sface.

Nomouth.Noeyes.

Tearing,shrieking,shrillscreaming—thenmoreshatteringblows.TheorgyofnoisehashardlyebbedwhenthechirpoftheAsdicisbackagain.Inourdeep-seaaviary,thechirpthatringsofbetrayal.Raspsthenervesmorethananythingelse.Theycouldn’thavecomeupwithaworse sound to tormentus.LikeourownStuka’ssirenscream.Iholdmybreath,Threeo’clockplushowmanyminutes?Ican’tquitemakeoutthebighand.Reports. Fragments of words both from forward and aft. What is leaking

badly?Adrive-shaftgasket?Ofcourse,Iunderstand,bothshaftsgothroughthepressurehull.Theemergencylightsgoon.Inthehalf-darknessIseethatthecontrolroomis

fullofmen.Whatnow?Whatishappening?Whichmenarethese?Theymusthavecomeinthroughtheafterhatch.I’vebeensittingintheforwardone.Theycouldn’t havegot throughhere.Damn this dim light. I can’t recognize anyofthem.Twomen—the control-roommate and one of the assistants—half blockmy view. They’re standing as stiff as ever, but everything behind them is inmotion. I hear the scuffling of boots, panting breath, sharp snorts, a fewmumbledcurses.TheOldManhasn’tnoticedyet.Hekeepshiseyesonthedepthmanometer.

Onlythenavigatorturnshishead.“Breachinthedieselroom,”someoneshoutsfromthestern.“Propaganda!”saystheOldManwithouteventurningaround,andthenonce

morewithdeliberateclarity,“Prop-a-gan-da!”TheChiefstartsinthedirectionofthedieselroombutstopsshortandlooksat

themanometer.“I demand a report!” snaps the Commander, turning away from the

manometersandseeingthecrowdinthesemi-darknessaroundtheafterhatch.Asthoughbyreflexhedrawshisheadinandbendsforwardslightly.“Chief,

justgivemeyourlight,”heordersinawhisper.There’s a stir among the men who have come into the control room from

astern.They shrinkback like tigers in frontof their trainer.Oneof themevensucceeds in raising his leg behind him and groping hisway back through thehatch.Itlookslikeacircusact.TheflashlightintheCommander’shandcatchesonly the recedingbackofamanhastening through thehatch toward thestern,rescuekitunderhisarm.

The faceof thecontrol-roommate isclose tomine.Hismouthadarkhole.Hiseyeswide—Icanseethefullcircleofhispupils.Heseemstobescreamingbutthereisnosound.Havemypowersofperceptiongonemad?Idon’tseethecontrolroommateas

frightened,butasanactorimitatingthefearofacontrol-roommate.TheCommanderordersbothmotorshalfspeedahead.“Halfspeedaheadboth!”comesthevoiceofthehelmsmanfromthetower.The control-roommate seems to be coming out of his coma.He begins to

glancearoundfurtivelybutwon’tlookanyonestraightintheface.Hisrightfootfeelsitswaycautiouslyoverthefloorplates.Histonguemoistenshisgraylowerlip.InasoftvoicetheOldMansneers,“Wastingtheirtincans…”Thenavigatorhascometoadeadstop,hishandholdingitspieceofchalk.He

looks frozen inmid-movement, but it’s only hesitation.He doesn’t knowhowmany marks to jot down for the last attack. His bookkeeping could getscrambled.Oneerror—andthewholethingwouldbedownthedrain.He blinks as if to shrug off a dream, then makes five bold strokes. Four

straightupanddown,andonethroughthemiddle.Thenextexplosionscomesingly—sharp, rippingburstsbutwith littleafter-

roar.TheChiefhastoshutdownthepumpsquickly.Thenavigatorstartsonthenextgroupofchalkmarks.Asheisdrawingthelastone,thechalkfallsfromhishand.Another great blast. Once more, a rattling over badly laid rails. Rumbling

acrossswitches,thenbumpingthroughbrokenstone.Metalscreamsandshrills.If a rivet should give way now, it could—as I well know—plow straight

throughmyskulllikeabullet.Thepressure!Astreamofwaterbreakingintotheboatcouldsawamaninhalf.Thesoursmelloffear!Nowthey’vegotusinthewringer,bytheshorthairs.

We’vehadit.It’sourturnnow.“Sixty degrees—getting stronger—more sounds at two hundred degrees!”

Two,thenfourexplosionsinmyhead.They’regoingtoripopenourhatches,thefilthyswine!Groansandhystericalsobbing.Theboatisjouncinglikeanairplaneinapocketofturbulence.

They’recarpetingus.Theimpacthasknockedtwomendown.Iseeamouthshrieking,flailingfeet,

twofacesmaskedinterror.Twomoreexplosions.Theseaisasingleragingmass.Subsidingroarandthensuddenlysilence.Onlyessentialsounds:thesonorous

insecthumofthemotors,menbreathing,thesteadydripofwater.“Forwardupten,”whisperstheChief.Thewhineofthehydroplanemotorspiercesmetothebone.Musteverything

makesomuchnoise?Isn’ttheOldMangoingtochangecourse?Aren’twegoingtoturnagain?Or

willhetrytobreakoutofthecirclingpatternbysteeringstraightahead?Whydoesn’tthesoundmansaysomething?Ifhehasnothingtoreport,itcanonlymeanthattherearenoenginesrunning

onthesurface.Butthebastardscan’thavegonesoquicklythathedidn’tcatchthem at it. So they’re lying there doggo.We’ve seen that happen a couple oftimesbefore.Still,thenoiseofthedestroyer’sengineshasneverbeenabsentthislong…TheOldManmaintainsdepthandcourse.Fiveminutespass,thentheoperator’seyessuddenlyopenwide,andheturns

his hand wheel furiously. His forehead is deeply furrowed. They’re about toattackagain.Inolongerlistentohisreportsbuttrytoconcentrateonnothingbutkeepingmyseat.Asharpdoublecrack.“Boat making water!” A cry comes from astern in the roar following the

explosion.“Express yourself properly,” the Commander orders the invisible man in a

hiss.Making water! This miserable naval jargon! Sounds like manufacturing

something:“creating”it,andyetmakingwaterisabouttheworstthingthatcanhappeninoursituation.Thenextoneseemstohitmebelowthebelt.Don’tscream!Iclenchmyteeth

untilmyjawsache.Someoneelsecriesoutforme,inafalsettothatgoesrightthroughme.Thebeamofaflashlightsweepsaroundinsearchofthemanwhoscreamed. I hear a new noise; the chattering of teeth like the quick rattle ofcastanets,thensniffling,snorting.Therearemensobbingtoo.

Abody lands againstmy knee and almost knocksme over. I feel someonehaulinghimselfup, seizingmeby the leg.But the firstman, theonewho fellagainstmyknee,seemstobestayingflatonthefloorplates.The emergency light over the navigator’s table has not gone on again. The

darknessprovidesacoverunderwhichpaniccansecretlyspread.More racking sobs. They come from someone crouching on the water

distributor. I can’t see who he is. The control-room mate is suddenly there,givinghimsuchablowonthebackthathecriesout.TheOldManswingsaroundasthoughbittenbyatarantulaandsnapsinthe

directionofthewaterdistributor,“Reporttomewhenthisisover!”Who?Thecontrol-roommate?Themanhehit?When the light improves I see the new control-room assistant is silently

weeping.TheOldManordershalfspeed.“Halfspeedaheadboth!”thehelmsmanacknowledges.This means that the boat’s buoyancy can no longer be maintained at slow

speed.Toomuchwaterhasseepedinastern.Thepropellernoisescanbeheardmoreclearlythanever.Aroaringrhythmic

beat.Ascounterpoint,thesoundofamilkcooler,andoverthatawhirringeggbeaterandthebuzzofadrill.Fullspeed!Theneedleof thedepthmanometermovesa fewmarks further.Theboat is

slowlysinking.TheChiefcannolongerstopit—blowingthetankswouldmakefartoomuchnoiseandpumpingisoutofthequestion.“One hundred ninety degrees!” the operator reports. “One hundred seventy

degrees!”“Steer sixty degrees!” orders the Commander and pushes home the tight-

drawn steel cable of the sky periscope. “Let’s hope we’re not leaving an oilslick,”heremarksasifbyaccident.Oilslick!Thewordsflashthroughtheroom,echoinmymind,andatonceleaveiridescentstreaksonmyclosedeyelids.Ifoilisrisingfromtheboat,theenemyhasasgoodatargetashecouldpossiblywishfor.TheCommanderbiteshislowerlip.It’sdarkupthere,butoilsmellseveninthedark—formiles.There’sawhisperfromthesoundroom.“Destroyersoundsveryclose!”

TheCommanderwhispersback,“Slowaheadboth—minimumhydroplanes!”He takes off his cap and lays it beside him on the chart chest. A sign of

resignation?Havewereachedtheend?The operator leansway out of his compartment as though about tomake a

report.Buthismouthremainsshut.Hisfaceisrigidwithtension.Suddenlyhetakeshisearphonesoff.Iknowwhatthatmeans:noiseseverywhere,sothere’snolongeranypointintryingtodeterminewherethey’recomingfrom.NowIcanhearthemmyself.Acrashing,explodingroar,asthoughtheseaitselfwerecollapsing.Finished!

Darkness!“Arethereevertobeanyproperreports?”Ihearanunrecognizablevoicesay

beforeIopenmyeyesagain.Theboatisbecomingperceptiblysternheavy.Inthebeamofaflashlightthe

telephonecableandsomeoilskinsswingoutfromthewall.Afewmoreheartbeats, thenavoicepenetrates thestillness.“Motorroom—

shipping water!” Immediately followed by more reports: “Bow compartmentflangesholding—dieselroomflangesholdingfast.”Finallytheemergencylight.Theneedleofthedepthmanometermoveswithterrifyingspeedoverthedial.“Full ahead both!” theOldMan orders,Despite the desperation implicit in

thiscommand,hisvoiceismatteroffactandcalm.Theboatlungesforward:thebatterieshaveconnectedup,oneaftertheother.“Forwardhydroplanefullup!Aftfulldown!”theChieforderstheoperators.

Buttheindicatordoesn’tmove.It’sfrozen.“Afthydroplaneoutofaction,”reports thecontrol-roommate.Ashen-faced,

heturnstowardtheCommanderwithalookofcompletetrust.“Recoupleformanual,”theChieforders,socalmlythatwemightaswellbe

on maneuvers. The hydroplane operators rise and throw their entire weightagainstthehandwheels.Thewhiteneedleoftheindicatorsuddenlytrembles—thankgod,it’smoving!Themechanismisn’tdamagedandthehydroplaneisn’tjammed;onlytheelectricalcontrolhasfailed.Theloudhummingofthemotors.Fullspeed—that’sinsanity!Butwhatelseis

leftforustotry?Runningsilently,wecannolongerholdourpresentlevel,Themotorroomismakingwater—aninrushofwateratourmostvulnerablepoint.“BothE-motorsfallingbelowfullpower!”

TheOldManreflectsnomorethanasecond,thencommands,“Examinebothbatteries!Testtheaccumulatorbilgesforacid!”Nodoubtaboutit:someofthebatterycellsmusthavecrackedandrundry.Whatnext?Whatmorecanhappen?MyheartalmoststopsastheFirstWatchOfficermovestooneside,revealing

the depthmanometer. The needle is still moving slowly forward. The boat issinking,eventhoughthemotorsarerunningonallthepowerstillavailable.It’sonlysecondsbeforethereisasharphissingsound,Thecontrol-roommate

hasreleasedthecompressedair.Ourbuoyancytanksarefilling.“Blowthemfull!”The Chief has sprung to his feet. He’s breathing in short gasps. His voice

vibrates.“Trimforward!Move,move!”Idon’tdarestandupforfearmylegswillfailme.Mymusclesarelikejelly,

mynervesarequivering.Letthefinalblowfall!Giveup!Callitaday!Thisisunendurable!IrealizethatI’mslippingintodazedindifference.Nothingmatters.Justgetit

over with—one way or another. I summon up all my strength to pull myselftogether.Damnitall,don’tletgo.We have risen 175 feet. The indicator comes to a halt. The Commander

orders,“Openexhaustthree!”Terrorwellsup inme. Iknowwhat thisordermeans.Asurgeofair isnow

risingtowardthesurfaceandformingabubblethatwillbetrayourposition.Atorrentoffear.Towarditoff,Imurmur,“Immune!Immune!”My heart keeps pounding! My breath comes in gasps. I hear a muffled

command:“Shutofftheexhaust!”ThenavigatorturnshisheadtotheOldMan.Icanseehisfullface:awood

carving.Pale,polishedlindenwood.Heseesmeandthrustsouthislowerlip.“Hystericalwomen,”growlstheOldMan.If the E-motors aft are swamped, if there should be a short circuit… how

couldthescrewsturn?Withoutpropellersandhydroplanesbothworking,we’redonefor.TheCommanderimpatientlydemandsreportsfromthemotorroom.Icatchonlyfragments:“…madewatertightwithwoodenwedges—sole-plate

broken—lotsofwater,causeunknown.”

I hear a highwhimpering sound. Seconds pass before I realize that it’s notcoming from the enemy. It’s coming from somewhere forward. A highundulatingwail.TheOldManturnsadisgustedfaceinthatdirection.Helooksasifhemight

explodewithrageatanymoment.“Onehundredfiftydegrees—gettinglouder!”“Andtheother—thefirstone?”“Ninetydegrees;sixtydegrees;holdingsteady!”Christ,nowthefuckershavegot together.They’re tossingtheballbackand

forth,andtheballistheAsdicbearing.Ouroriginalpursuerisnolongeractingunder any handicap. While he’s attacking at top speed—which puts his ownAsdicoutofaction—hiscolleaguecanidlealong,takingbearingsforhim.Andthenradiothefigurestohim.TheOldMan’sfaceiscontorted,asthoughhehadtakentoolongtoswallow

anespeciallybitterpill.“Thisisacrime!”Forthefirsttime,thesoundmanshowssignsofnervousness.Ordoeshehave

to turn his wheel so violently to find out which of the two sounds is gettinglouder?If the secondCommander up there is an old hand, if the twoof themhave

worked togetherbefore, they’ll exchange roles asoftenaspossible inorder tooutfoxus.UnlessI’mcompletelymistaken,theOldManissteeringtowardtheenemyin

atightcurve.Rollercoaster! The thought keeps coming back. Rollercoaster. Up, down,

gliding, risingandfallingcurves, loopingbackonourselves,suddendivesandjarringascents.Two crashes shake the boat. Four, five more follow, Two of them from

underneath.Onlyacoupleofseconds,andthefaceofthechiefmechanicFranzappearsintheframeoftheafterhatch,completelydistortedinterror.Heemitsasortofcacklinghigh-pitched“heeheehee,”whichsoundslikea

bad imitation of the destroyer’s screws. The Commander, who has closed hiseyesagain,turnstowardhim.Meanwhilethemechanichasclimbedthroughtheframeof thehatchandstands, escapeapparatus inhand,half crouchedbehindthe periscope shaft in the control room. He bares his teeth, looking like a

monkey.Theygleambrightlyoutofhisdarkbeard.Aspasmodicsobbingnowcompoundsthe“beebeehee.”Howdoeshedo it?Then I realize that the sobbing is coming fromanother

corner.TheOldManstiffens.Forafractionofasecondhesitsrigidlyupright.Then

hedrawshisheadinagainandturnsaroundslowly.Heseesthechiefmechanic.Secondspassandthenhesnarls,“Areyoucrazy?Backtoyourbattlestation!Atonce!”According to regulations the chief mechanic should say, “Jawohl, Herr

Kaleun!” But he simply opens his mouth wide as if he were at the point ofscreaminghysteria.Lossofhearing,Ithinktomyself:He’sshoutingandIcan’thearathing.But

my ears are working! I can hear the Old Man spit out, “Goddammit, pullyourselftogether!”He’sonhisfeet.Thesobbingstops.“Destroyer bearing one hundred twenty degrees,” reports the operator. The

OldManblinksirritably.The chiefmechanic starts towrithe in awordless struggle—as if under the

spell of a hypnotist. I can see the spasm begin to pass. If only he doesn’tcollapse!“Returntobattlestationatonce!”andimmediatelythereafter,inathreatening

undertone,“Atonce,Isaid!”“Onehundredtendegrees.Gettinglouder!”Theoperator’swhisperingvoice

soundslikethemonotoneofapriest.The OldMan hunches his head down even farther, then relaxes again and

movestwoorthreestepsforward.Igetuptomakeroomforhim.Wheredoeshemeantogo?Thechiefmechanic finallypullshimself togetherwitha jerkandgaspsout,

“Jawohl,HerrKaleun!”Then he throws a lightning glance around him, bends over double, and

disappearsthroughtheafterhatchwithouttheOldManseeinghim.TheCommander,whois juston thepointofputtinghis left leg throughthe

forwardhatchframe,stopsandlooksbackwithanoddexpressiononhisface.

“HerrKaleun,he’sgone,”stammerstheChief.TheCommanderwithdrawshisleg.Itlooksasifafilmweresuddenlybeing

runbackwards.Likeaslightlydazedboxerwhosevisionhadbeenblurredforaminuteortwo,theCommanderwalksstifflyandsilentlybacktohisplace.“I’dhavefinishedhimoff!”Thepistolinhiscubbyhole!“Starboard full rudder! Steer two hundred thirty degrees!” he says in his

normal voice. “Take her down one hundred seventy-five feet, Chief!” Theoperatorreports,“Propellersoundsbearingtendegrees.”“Acknowledged!”saystheOldMan.TheAsdicbeamsrattleandraspalongtheboat.“Revolting,”hewhispers.Everyone in thecontrol roomknows that it’snot theAsdiche’s referring to

butthechiefmechanic.“Franzofallpeople!Disgraceful!”Heshakeshisheadindisgust,asthoughhe’dseenasexualexhibitionist.“Lockhimup.I’llhavehimlockedup!”“Destroyerattacking,”reportstheoperatorinadrone.“Steertwohundreddegrees.Bothmotorsslowahead!”TheOldMan is up to his tricks again: dodging aside into the underbrush.

Howmanytimesdoesthismake?Through the forwardhatchdrifts a sour smell.Someof themenmusthave

vomited.Theoperator starts squintingagain.Wheneverhemakes this face I turnmy

headawayandhunchupmyshoulders.Atattooontheboat,thenanimmenseblow,andsoontheinfernalresounding

gurgleandroarofthewater,likeamightyrollingecho.Fivethunderclapspunctuatetheecho.Amatterofseconds.Everythingthatis

lying around loose comes sliding and rolling toward the stern. The Chief hasincreased speed during the detonations and in the ensuing roar he shouts,“Pump!”Heremainsbehindthehydroplaneoperators,crouchedasiftoleap.The thundering and roaring goes on and on, We crash through a raging

waterfall.Thebilgepumpsworkthroughoutthenoise.BeforetheChiefcanshutthemoff,threemoreexplosionsshaketheboat.

“Continuebailing!”TheChiefsucksinhisbreath,throwsaquicklookattheCommander. Could there be a touch of satisfaction in it? Can he actually befeelingproudbecausehisbilgepumpsarestillfunctioning?“They’re doing their best for you, Chief,” says the Old Man. “Superb

service!”04.00.Ourattempts tobreakawayhave lasted—howmanyhours? I’ve lost

count.Mostofthemeninthecontrolroomaresittingdown:elbowsonknees,heads in their hands. No one even looks up any longer. The Second WatchOfficer isstaringat theflooras ifhecouldseemushroomsgrowingoutof thefloorplates.Thegraduatedcircleof theskyperiscopehasbeen torn looseanddanglesonawire.Thereisthetinkleoffallingglass.Butwondersnevercease!—Theboatremainswatertight.We’restillmoving,

still buoyant. The motors are running, our screws turning. We’re makingheadway,andwestillhavepowerfor therudder.TheChiefcanhold theboat:it’sactuallyonanevenkeelagain.Thenavigatorisbentoverthecharttableasthoughheisfascinatedbyit;his

headisclosetoit,andthepointsofthedividers—whichareclaspedinhisrighthand—haveboredintothelinoleum.Thecontrol-roommatehasstucktwofingersintohismouth,apparentlyabout

towhistleonthem.TheSecondWatchOfficeristryingtoimitatetheCommander’sequanimity.

Buthisfistsbetrayhim:they’refirmlyclenchedaroundhisbinoculars—hestillhastheglasseshangingaroundhisneck—andhe’sflexingthemveryslowlyatthewrists,firstoneway,thentheother.Hisknucklesarewhitewithstrain.TheCommanderturnstotheoperator,whohashiseyesclosedandistwisting

thewheelofhisapparatusfromsidetoside.Havingapparentlysingledoutthesoundhewaslookingfor,hismaneuveringstaperoffalmosttonothing.Inasubduedvoiceheannounces,“Destroyernoisesrecedingatonehundred

twentydegrees!”“Theythinkthey’vefinishedusoff!”saystheCommander.That’sthelastof

oneofthem—butwhatabouttheother?TheChiefis inthestern,sotheCommanderhimselfisstill inchargeofthe

hydroplanes.The whining has ceased. All that comes from the bow compartment is an

occasionalspasmodicsobbing.

TheChief reappears,hishandsand forearmsblackwithoil.Snatchesofhishalf-whispered report reachme. “Flange of outer gas vent…condenser… twofoundation bolts broken… already replaced… firmly wedged with woodenpegs…flangestillleaking—butit’sminor.”BesidetheCommander’sdeskliesacartonofsyrup,mashedandtroddenall

over the floor. The accordion is spread open in this disgusting mess. All thepictureshavefallenoffthewalls.ItakeacautiousstepoverthefaceoftheC-in-C.In theOfficers’Mess, books lie strewnamong towels and spilledbottlesof

applejuice.Thesillystrawdogwithglasseyesthat’ssupposedtobeourmascothaslandedonthefloortoo.ThisiswhereIprobablyoughttostartcleaningup—do something tooccupymyhands. I bendover; stiff joints; I godownonmyknees.Christ!Icanactuallymovemyhands.I’mmakingmyselfuseful!Quietly,quietly,becareful,Don’thitanything.Itmustbewaypastfouro’clock.I’vebeencleaningupforagoodtenminuteswhentheChiefcomesthrough:

greenishringsunderhiseyes.Pupilsdarkaslumpsofcoal,cheekssunken.He’sattheendofhistether.I hand him a bottle of fruit juice. It’s not just his hand; hiswhole body is

trembling.Heperchesonaledgewhilehe’sdrinking.Butasheputsthebottledownhe’salreadyonhisfeet,staggeringslightlylikeaboxer,badlyshakenandcompletelyexhausted,butpullinghimselfupoutofhiscorneronemore time.“…Itwon’twork,”hemuttersashedisappears.Suddenlytherearethreemoreexplosions,butthistimetheysoundlikebeats

onaslackdrumskin.“Milesaway,”Ihearthenavigatorsay.“Twohundredseventydegrees—movingawayslowly!”theoperatorreports.Tothinkthatsomewherethereisdryland,hillsandvalleys…peoplearestill

asleepintheirhouses.InEurope,thatis,InAmericathey’restillsittingupwiththelightsburning,andwe’reprobablyclosertoAmericathanwearetoFrance.We’vecometoofarwest.Absolutesilenceintheboat.Afterawhiletheoperatorwhispers,“Destroyer

bearingtwohundredsixtydegrees.Veryfaint,Slowrevs—seemstobemovingaway.”“They’re running silent,” says the Commander. “Dawdling as slow as they

can.Andlistening!Whereinhell’sthesecondone?Watchit!”

This is addressed to the hydrophone operator. So the Old Man no longerknowspreciselywheretheenemyis.I can hear the chronometer ticking and the condensation dripping into the

bilge.The operator does a full sweep—and another, and another—but gets nobearinginhisinstrument.“Idon’tlikeit,”theCommandermutterstohimself.“Don’tlikeitatall.”Atrick!Ithastobe.Something’swrong:itsticksoutamile.TheOldManstaresstraightahead,expressionless,thenblinksquicklyonceor

twiceandswallowshard.Apparentlyhecan’tdecideonacourseofaction.IfIonlyknewwhatthegamewas.Nomoreexplosions—nomoreAsdic—the

Commander’scontinuedplay-acting—whattomakeofit?Ifonly I couldask theOldManstraightout, in fourplainwords, “Howdo

thingsstand?”Butmymouthseems tobe rivetedshut, I’m incapableof thought.Head’sa

volcaniccrater,bubblingevilly.Ifeelthirsty.Theremuststillbesomeapplejuiceleftinthelocker.Iopenit

carefully,butshardsofchinafallout.Allthatdamnbangingaround.Mostofthecups and saucers are broken. A coffee pot has lost its spout. Looks idioticwithoutit.Fortunatelythebottleofapplejuiceisintact.Apparentlyitwaswhatsmashedeverythingelse.Quiterighttoo:Smasheverythingaroundyousoastostaywholeyourself.Theframedphotographofourlaunchingisstilllyingunderthetable,broken.

Sharpsliversofglass still sticking in the frame. Imusthavemissed itwhile Iwascleaningup.Imanagetogetholdofitbutcan’tbebotheredtoloosentheglassdaggers,soitgoesbackonitshookjustasitis.“Nomorenoises?”askstheCommander.“No,HerrKaleun!”Slowlyitgetstobe05.00.Nonoise.Hard to understand.Have they really givenup the chase?Or are

theyconsideringusassunkalready?I feelmywayback into thecontrol room.TheCommander isconsulting in

whisperswiththenavigator.Ihear,“Intwentyminuteswesurface!”Ihearit,butIcan’tbelievemyears.Dowehavetosurface?Orarewereally

safelyoutoftheshit?

The operator starts to say something; he’s about to make a report—but hestopsinmid-syllableandkeepsturninghiswheel.Hemusthavecaughtafaintsound,whichhe’snowtryingtotrackbyfine-tuninghisapparatus.TheOldManstaresintotheoperator’sface.Theoperatormoistenshislower

lipwithhistongue.Inaveryiowvoicehereports,“Noisebearingsixtydegrees—veryfaint.”Abruptly theOldMan climbs through the hatch and crouches down beside

himinthegangway.Theoperatorpasseshimtheheadset.TheOldManlistensandtheoperatorturnshiswheelverygentlybackandforthalongthescale,andgraduallytheOldMan’sfacegrowsstern.Minutespass.TheOldManremainstiedtothehydrophonebythecordofthe

headset.Helookslikeafishonaline.Hisorderstothehelmsmanaretobringthebowaroundsothathecanhearbetter.“Standbytosurface!”His voice, grating and determined, has startled others than myself. The

Chief’seyelidstwitch.Stand by to surface!Hemust knowwhat is and isn’t possible!Noises still

audibleinthehydrophoneandhe’sgettingreadytogoup?The hydroplane operators sit hunched over their tables. The navigator has

finallytakenoffhissou’wester.Hismask-likefacelooksyearsolder,thelinesinitcarvedevendeeper.TheChiefstandsbehindhim,hisleftthighrestingonthechartchest,hisright

handonthepillaroftheskyperiscope,historsobentforwardasthoughtobringhim as close as possible to the needle of the depthmanometer that is slowlymoving backward over the scale.With everymark it passeswe are three feetcloser to the surface. Itmovesveryslowly,as if togiveus time toexperiencetheseminutesatleisure.“Radioclearbynow?”askstheCommander.“Jawohl,HerrKaleun!”Thewatch isalreadyassembled inoilskinsandsou’westersunder the tower

hatch,Binocularsarebeingpolished—muchtoovigorously,orsoitseems.Noonesaysaword.Mybreathinghassteadied.I’veregainedtheuseofmymuscles.Icanstand

withoutbeingafraidofstaggering,butat thesame timeIcansingleouteverymuscle,everyboneinmybody.Thefleshonmyfacefeelsfrozen.

TheOldManintendstosurface.We’regoingtobreatheseaairagain.Wearealive.Thebastardsdidn’tkillus.No suddenoutbursts of joy. I’m still in thegrip of terror,Lettingour tense

shoulders droop, holding our heads a little higher—that’s about all we canmanage.Thecrew is completely exhausted.Evenafter theorder to surfacehasbeen

given,bothcontrol-roomassistantssitapatheticallyonthefloodingandbailingdistributors.Andasforthecontrol-roommate,he’stryingtolookcasual,butIcanstillseethehorrorinhisface.Isuddenlylongforaperiscopetentimesthelengthofthisone.IfonlytheOld

Man could take a single quick look around from the safety of our presentposition, so that we would know what’s going on up there—what that damnbunchisreallyupto!Theboathasrisentoperiscopedepth.We’reclosetothesurface.TheChief

hastheboatfirmlyinhand.Notraceofexcessivebuoyancy.TheOldManstickstheasparagusstalkout.Iheartheperiscopemotorspring

intoactionandstopagain,andthenthesoftsnapandclickoftheclutch.TheOldManisridinghismerry-go-round.Thetensionintheroomisalmostunbearable.Withoutintendingto,Iholdmy

breathuntilIhavetogaspforairlikeadrowningman.Nowordfromabove.Sothingsdolookbad!Ifitwereallclear,theOldManwouldtellusatonce.“Takethisdown!”Thankgod,theOldMan’svoice.Thenavigatorthinksthewordsareforhim.Hereachesforapencil.Mygod,

arewegoingtohavethisalloveragain?Literarycompositionforthewarlog?“Herewe go: ‘Periscope reveals—destroyer, corrected bearing one hundred

degrees,lyingmotionless—rangeaboutsixty-fivehundredyards.’Gotthat?”“Jawohl,HerrKaleun!”“’Moonstillverybright.’Gotthat?”“Jawohl,HerrKaleun!”“’Remainingsubmerged.’”Sothat’sthat!Nofurtherwordfromabove.

Three or four minutes pass, then the Commander gropes his way down.“Thought they could fool us! Same old tricks! Idiots! Every time they thinkwe’ll bite.Chief, takeherdown to twohundred feet again!We’ll justmove alittletoonesideandreloadthetorpedoesinourowngoodtime.”TheOldMan is behaving as if everythingwere going according to plan. I

want tograspmyhead inmyhands:hesoundsas ifhe’s readingsomeboringcompanyreportfromthebusinesssectionofanewspaper.“Navigator,takethisdown: ‘Running silent to get clear of destroyer. Presume that destroyer—thatdestroyerhaslostus…Nosoundinimmediatevicinity.”“Presume”isgood!Sohedoesn’tevenknowforsure.Henarrowshiseyes.

Apparentlyhe’snotyetthroughwithhisdictation.“Navigator!”“Jawohl,HerrKaleun!”“Add this. ‘Conflagration—brilliant conflagration, corrected bearing two

hundredfiftydegrees.Assumeittobetankerhitbyus.”TheOldMangivesanordertothehelmsman.“Steertwohundredfiftydegrees!”Istarearoundfromonetoanotherandseenothingbutimpassivefaces.Only

the SecondWatch Officer betrays a slight frown. The First Watch Officer isgazingexpressionlesslyintospace.Thenavigatoriswritingatthecharttable.Aft, and in the bow compartment, they’remaking repairs.Now and then a

mancomesthroughthecontrolroomwithoil-smearedhandsandreportstotheFirstWatchOfficer,whohastakenchargeofthehydroplanes.Theyalwaysdoitinawhisper.NooneapartfromtheOldMandaresusehisnormalvoice.“Anotherhalfhourandwe’llreloadthetorpedoes,”hesays,andthentome,

“Thiswouldbeagoodtimeforadrink.”Hemakesnomovetoleavethecontrolroom,soIhurriedlygoinsearchofa

bottle of apple juice. I don’t seem towant tomove. Everymuscle aches as Iclamberthroughthehatch.LimpingpastHerrmann,Iseethathe’stotallyintentonhishydrophonewheel.ButrightnowIdon’tgiveadamnwhathepicksupwithit.Whatever the reportwas, afterhalf anhour theOldMangives theorder to

reloadthetorpedoes.They’re working like madmen in the bow compartment. Wet clothes,

sweaters,leathersuits,andallkindsofjunkarepiledupclosetothehatch,andthefloorboardsaregone.

“Praise theLordwith trumpetsandcymbals,” intones the torpedomechanicHacker.“Finallywe’llgetsomeroominhere,”headdsformybenefit,wipingthe sweat fromhis neckwith a filthy ragof a towel.Heurgeshis coolies on.“Getwithit,boys,getwithit—upwiththehoists!”“AsmearofVaselineandstraightintothecrack!”Ariohangssuspendedfrom

the chains of the hoist inmock ecstasy, as he hauls away in time toHacker’scallsofhau-ruck.“Fuckme—fuckme—youhornygoat,oh,oh,oh,youbastard—oh,you—that’sit—deeper—goon!More—more!”I’m amazed that he can find the breath for it in this madhouse. A seaman

who’salsohaulingawayatthetackle,hasanembitteredexpressiononhisface.He’spretendingtobedeaf.Whenthefirsttorpedoisinitstube,theBerlinerspreadshislegsanddriesthe

sweatfromhistorsowithahandtowel,thenhandsthedirtyragtoArio.The First Watch Officer appears to check the time. The men work on

doggedly.AsidefromHacker’shau-rucksandsubduedcursesthere’snothingtobeheard.Back in the Officers’ Mess I see the Old Man in his usual corner of the

Chief’sbunk,legsstretchedoutinfrontofhim,leaningbackatananglelikeaman at the end of a very long train ride.His face is upturned, hismouth halfopen.Athreadofsalivadanglesfromonecorner,disappearingintohisbeard.Iwonderwhattodo.Hecan’tjustlieherelikethis,withpeoplecomingand

going.Icoughloudly,as if toclearafroginmythroat—andinstantly theOldManiswideawake,sittingupstraightagain.Buthesaysnothing,justgesturestowardaseat.Finallyheaskshaltingly,“Howdothingslookforward?”“Onefishisalreadyinitstube.They’rejustaboutfinished!Themen,Imean

—notthework.”“Huh.Andhaveyoubeenaft?”“No—toomuchworkgoingon.”“Tsch, it looks pretty shitty back there. But the Chief will manage; he’s a

helluvadancingmaster.”Thenhecallsintothegangway,“Food!Fortheofficersofthewatchaswell.”Andtome,“Neverpassupthechanceforacelebration—evenifit’sonlywithapieceofbreadandasourpickle!”Plates and knives and forks are brought in. Soon we’re sitting around a

properlysettable.

I’m blabbering away silently to myself like an idiot. “Crazy—absolutelycrazy.”Thereinfrontofmyeyesareasmoothcleantable,plates,knives,forks,cups, the familiar lamplight. I stare at the Old Man stirring his tea with apolishedspoon,theFirstWatchOfficerdissectingasausage,theSecondWatchOfficersplittingaspicedpicklelengthwise.ThestewardasksmewhetherIwantmoretea.“Me?Tea?Yes!”Istammer.A

hundreddepthchargesarestillexplodinginmyhead.Everymuscleachesfromthedesperatetension.Ihaveacrampinmyrightthigh;Icanevenfeelmyjawmusclesateverybite.Thatcomesfromgrindingmyteeth.“Whyareyougogglinglikethat?”theCommanderasks,hismouthfull,andI

hastilyspearasliceofsausageonmyfork.Keepyoureyesopen.Don’tbegintothink.Chew,chewthoroughly,thewayyouusuallydo.Moveyoureyes.Blink.“Anotherpickle?”askstheOldMan.“Yes,please—thanks!”From the gangway comes a dull thumping. Is Hinrich, who has relieved

Herrmanninthesoundroom,tryingtocallattentiontohimself?Aloudstampingof boots, then he announces, “Exploding depth charges, bearing two hundredthirtydegrees.”HisvoicesoundsmuchhigherthanHerrmann’s,atenorasopposedtoabass.Itrytorelatehisreporttoourcourse.Twopointstoport.“Well,it’sabouttimewesurfaced,”saystheOldMan,hismouthfull.“Ship’s

time?”“06.55hours!”isthereportfromthenavigatorinthecontrolroom.TheOldMangetsup,stillchewing,stands therewhilehewashesdownhis

mouthful with a great gulp of tea, and reaches the end of gangway in threedetermined strides. “We surface in tenminutes.Addanote to the log: ‘06.00,torpedoes reloaded. 06.55, depth charge detonations at two hundred thirtydegrees.’”Thenhecomesbackandwedgeshimselfintohiscorneragain.Hacker appears, gasping for air. He has to take a couple of deep breaths

beforehecangetawordout.Mygod,lookathim!Thesweatispouringdownhim in rivulets.He can hardly stay on his feet as he stammers out his report.“Fourbowtorpedoesloaded.Sterntube…”

He tries togoon,but theOldMan interruptshim.“Verygood,Hacker; it’sobviouswecan’treachitforthetimebeing.”Hackertriestodoasnappyabout-face,butloseshisbalance.He’sjustableto

savehimselffromfallingbyclutchingthetopofthelockers.“Theseyoungsters!”saystheOldMan.“Theyreallyareamazing!”Andthen,

“Itcertainlyfeelsdifferenthavingtorpedoesinthetubesagain!”I know that all he wants to do now is attack the destroyer that’s been

tormentingus.He’dbebettingeverythingonasinglecardagain,butnodoubthehassomethingelseinmind.Hegetsupresolutely,doesupthreebuttonsonhisfur-linedvest,jamshiscap

downharderonhishead,andheadsforthecontrolroom.The Chief appears and announces that the damages aft have been repaired

with shipboard materials. Shipboard materials—that means only temporaryrepairs.IclimbintothecontrolroombehindtheOldMan,Thebridgewatchisalreadystandingby.TheSecondEngineerhasstationed

himselfbehindthehydroplaneoperators.Theboat isrisingrapidly.We’llsoonbeatperiscopelevel.Withoutwasting aword theOldMan climbs into the tower. The periscope

motorbegins to run.Moreclicks andpauses. I havedifficultybreathingagainuntilhisvoicecomesdownloudandclear.“Surface.”Theequalizationofpressureislikeablow.Iwanttoroarandgulpallatonce,

insteadofwhich I simplystand there likeall theothers.Onlymy lungsare inaction,pumpinginthefreshseaair.DowncomesthevoiceoftheCommander,“Bothdiesels!”Astern in thediesel room the compressed air rushes into the cylinders.The

pistonsbegintomoveupanddown.Andnowtheignition!Thedieselsfire.Ashudderrunsthroughtheboatasviolentas thefirst jerkofa tractor.Thebilgepumps hum, the ventilators pump aid through the boat—a stream of sound tomakethenervesrelax—likeasoothingbath.Iclimbontothebridgebehindthelookouts.Christ!Amonstrousconflagrationoverthehorizon.“Thatmustbethethirdsteamer!”roarstheCommander.

AgainstthedarkheavensIcanmakeoutablackcloudabovetheredinferno:smokewindingupwardlikeagiganticworm.Weheadtowardit.Soonthebowandsternofthevesselgrowclearlyvisible,buthermidshipisalmostinvisible.Thewindbringstheacrid,suffocatingsmelloffueloil.“Broketheirback,”theCommanderrapsout.Heordersfullspeedaheadand

changescourse.Ourbowisnowpointingstraightattheconflagration.The glare of the fire flickers, lighting the gigantic smoke clouds from

underneath,andthroughthesmogwecanmakeouttonguesofflame.Nowand again the entire cloud is shot through from insidewith flashes of

yellow, and individual bursts soar up into the darkness like star shells. Realrocketsexplode, rose-bloodred, throughthewelterofsmoke.Their reflectionssnakeacrossthedarkwaterbetweenusandtheburningship.Asinglemaststandsoutblackagainstthereflectionofthefire,risingupout

of the flames like an admonitory finger. The wind forces the smoke in ourdirection,asiftheshipwantedtoshroudherselfandgodownunseen.Onlythesternofthetankerisvisibleasadarkhulk.Itmusthaveheeledtowardus;whenthe wind blows the smoke away I recognize the tilted deck, a fewsuperstructures,thestumpofwhatwasoncealoadingcrane.“No need to fire again!” The Commander’s voice is harsh and husky. His

wordsturnintoahoarsegurglewhichseemstodieawayindrunkenlaughter.Nevertheless, he doesn’t order the boat to turn aside; on the contrary, we

slowlydrawcloserandclosertotheinferno.All around the sternof the tanker dark-red flames are lickingupout of the

sea:thewateritselfisonfire.Spilledfueloil.“Perhapswecanfindouthername!”saystheCommander.The rumbling and cracking of a brush fire reaches us, followed by a sharp

hissingandsnapping.Theseaisnowyellowwiththereflectionoftheburningsternandredfromtheflamingoil.Thenwe in turn are floodedwith the same crimson glare.Every slit in the

gratingstandsoutinthelightoftheleapingflames.Iturnmyhead.Everyone’sfaceisred—distortedredmasks.Nowthereisthethudofanotherexplosion.Andthen—Iprickupmyears—

wasn’tthatahoarsecry?Couldtherestillbepeopleonboard?Didn’tIjustseea

gesticulatingarm?Isquint—butthere’snothinginthebinocularsbutflamesandsmoke.Nonsense,nohumansoundcouldmakeitselfheardthroughthisinferno.What will the Old Man do? Now and again he gives an order to the

helmsman.Iknow:stayheadon—don’tbesilhouettedagainsttheconflagration.“Looksharp!”says theOldMan,and then,“She’llbegoingdownanyminutenow!”Ibarelyhearhim,Westandthererooted.Madmen,desperadoes,staringintoa

hellofflames.Howfarisit?Eighthundredyards?The significanceof itsbeing suchabig shipgnawsatme.Howmanymen

would such a vessel carry as minimum crew? How many dead this time?—twenty, thirty? British ships are certainly sailingwith as fewmen as possiblethesedays.Perhapstheyevendividetheirwatchesintwoinsteadofthree.Buttheycouldn’tmanagewithlessthantenseamen,pluseightforengines,wireless,officers,andstewards.Hasadestroyerpickedthemup?Buttodothatitwouldhave tostop—canadestroyer runsucha risk,withaU-boat in the immediatevicinity?Overthereaclusterofglaringredbeamsoffireshootsintothesky:thestill-

floatingsternspitsout trailsofsparks.Andthenadistressrocket.Sotherearestillpeopleonboard!Godinheaven—inthatinferno!“Thatwent off by itself.There’s noone left onboard. It’s impossible!” the

OldMansaysinhisordinaryvoice.OncemoreIusethebinocularstogropemywaythroughthesmoke.There!

Nodoubtofit:people!Crowdedtogetheronthestern.ForasecondIseethemsharpagainsttheblazingbackdrop.Nowsomearejumpingintothewater;onlytwoor three are left, still running about up there on thedeck.Oneof them ishurled into the air. I see him clearly, like a disjointed doll, against thereddishyellowglare.Thenavigatorroars,“Therearesomeoverthere,too!”andpointstothewater

infrontoftheburningtanker.Isnatchupmyglasses:araftwithtwopeopleonit.I keep my binoculars on them for half a minute. No sign of movement.

Undoubtedlydead.Butthere!Theblackhumps—theymustbeswimmers!

TheSecondWatchOfficerturnshisglassesinthatdirectiontoo.TheOldManexplodes. “Look out! For god’s sake, you’re supposed to be keeping watchastern.”Aren’t those screams I’m hearing through the crackling? One of the

swimmers raises an arm for an instant. The others, seven—no, ten—men arerecognizableonlyasfloatingblackballs.ThewindforcesthebannersofoilysmokedownoncemoreandIlosesightof

theswimmers.Thenthey’rethereagain.Nodoubtaboutit—they’remakingforour boat. Behind them the red tongues of spreading oil reach out in an ever-wideningfront.IglancesidewaysattheCommander.“Damnrisky,”Ihearhimmurmur,andI

knowwhathemeans,We’vecometooclose.It’sgettinghot.For two or threeminutes he says nothing.He picks up his binoculars, puts

themdownagain,strugglingtocometoadecision;theninavoicesohuskyitalmostcrackshecallsdowntheorderforbothdieselstobereversed.Themenintheengineroomwillbewide-eyed.Reverse—wehaven’thadthat

onebefore.Nasty:Nowwecan’tcrashdive—theboathasnosteerageway.Theburningoilspreadsfasterthanthemencanswim.Theyhaven’tachance.

The fire on the water devours the oxygen. To suffocate, to burn to death, todrown—whoeveriscaughtwilldieinallthreewaysatonce.Luckily the crackling of the conflagration and the dull roar of minor

explosionsrendertheirscreamsinaudible.Thered-tingedfaceoftheSecondWatchOfficerwearsalookofhorror.“Can’tunderstandit,”theOldMansaysdully.“Noonecametopickthemup

Itoofinditincomprehensible.Allthosehours!Weretheytryingatfirsttosavethe ship? Perhaps she was still manageable after the hit; perhaps the engineswerestillgoodforafewknots.Possiblytheytriedtoputthefireoutinthehopethat they could still escape an enemy submarine. I shudder at what that crewmusthavegonethrough.“Nowwewon’tevenfindouthername!”IheartheOldMansay.He’strying

tobeironic.Nauseainmythroat.IhaveavisionofthemanIhelpedtorescueoutofthe

hugepooloffueloilintheharborbasinafteranairattack.Hestoodthereonthepier,vomitingandshakenwithconvulsivecrampsandgroans.Theburningoilhadscorchedhiseyes.Luckilyasailorappearedwithafirehose.Hewashedoff

the slime at such high pressure that the poor wretch was knocked down androlledoverthestoneslikeashapelessblackbundle.Suddenlythesternofthetankerrises,loomingupasifitwerebeingthrustout

of the water from underneath. For a while it stands, steep as a cliff, in theburningsea;thenwithtwoorthreemuffledexplosionsitplunges,roaring,outofsight.Insecondstheseaclosesoverthespotwhereitsank,suckinginthehugeship

as though it had never existed. Of the swimmers there is nothingmore to beseen.Ourmenwhoarebelowmustnowbeable tohear themusicofdestruction,

theterrifyinggroaning,cracking,andtearing, theexplosionsof theboilers, thebreakingupoftheholds.HowdeepistheAtlantichere?Sixteenthousandfeet?Thirteenthousandatleast.TheCommanderordersustoturnaway.“Nothingmoreforustodohere!”The bridge lookouts are back in their usual positions, motionless, their

binocularstotheireyes.Forwardabovethehorizonthere’sadimreddishglow,such as big cities cast against the sky at night. And now in the southwestsomethingbrightensandflaresalmostuptothezenith.“Navigator, take this down. ‘Glow of flames visible at two hundred thirty

degrees.’And add ship’s time.Other boats are in actionover there.We’ll justtakealookandseewhatkindofneonsignitis,”hemuttersinmydirectionandordersthebowturnedtowardtheflickeringlight.What now? Is this going to go on untilwe’re left drifting somewherewith

emptytanks?Haven’twehadenough?TheOldMan’sprobablyitchingtopullhimselfdownadestroyer.Asrepayment,revengeforourordeal.TheChiefdisappearsfromthebridge.“So it goes,” says the Old Man. “But it’s high time we sent that signal!

Navigator—paperandpencil.We’dbetterbeginagain.Nowwecandescribethewholethingproperly…”Iknowwhathemeans:theriskofbeingspottedifwesendmorethanabrief

radio signal is now irrelevant. By this time the Tommies are well aware thatwe’reactiveinthisvicinity.Nofurtherneedtoworryabouttheirtakingbearingsonourtransmitter.“Just take it down—as follows: ‘Depth charge pursuit—by destroyers.’

‘Sophisticated depth bomb pursuit’ might be better. ‘Numerous attacks’—butwhocaresaboutthat?Theycanjustaswellfinditinthewarlog;Solet’sleaveitat that: ‘Numerous attacks.’ They’re a lot more interested in what we sank,navigator, so we’ll keep it absolutely simple: ‘Depth charge pursuit bydestroyers.’Leaveoutthe‘numerousattacks’aswell.Tocontinue:‘Depthbombattack.Fivetorpedoesfired.Fourhits.PassengerlinereightthousandGRTandfreighterfivethousandfivehundredGRT.Sinkingsclearlyaudible.HitoneightthousandGRTtanker.Sinkingobserved—UA.”“Passenger liner,” the OldMan had dictated.Was that one of the ones re-

equipped as troop transports? I don’t want to picture the effect of a torpedohitting a fully loaded troop transport… The drunken loudmouth in the BarRoyal:“Destroytheenemy,notjusthisships!”FrombelowcomesthereportthattheradiomanhaspickedupSOScallsfrom

Britishsteamers.“Well,well,”saystheOldMan.Notawordmore.At07.30hourswepickupasignalfromoneofourownboats.Thenavigator

reads it aloud,quitecarriedaway.“Sank three steamers.Fourth shipprobable.Fourhoursdepthchargepursuitduringattack.Convoybrokenintogroupsandloneships.Contactbrokenoff.Pursuingsouthwest—UZ.”I stareat theglowover thehorizon,which ispunctuatednowandagainby

brightflashes.A frenetic jumble of sequences races through my mind: The projector’s

running too fast. Pieces of film have been spliced together meaninglessly, atrandom,and therearea lotofdoubleexposures.Againandagain I seecloudsfrom explosions, which remain frozen for a few instants and then collapse,dropping a rain of planks and fragments of iron. I see the black smoke of oildarkeningtheskylikeagiganticskeinofwool.Thenthecracklingoftheblaze,theflameofoilonwater—andthestrugglingblackballsinfrontofit.I’m overwhelmed with horror at what we have done with our torpedoes.

Delayed reaction.One stab at the firing lever! I closemy eyes to blot out thehauntingvisions,butIcontinuetoseetheseaofflamesspreadingoutoverthewaterandmenswimmingfortheirlives.How does the OldMan feel when he visualizes the mass of ships that he

himself has destroyed? Andwhen he thinks of the crowds of men whoweretraveling on those ships andwent downwith them, orwere blown up by thetorpedoes—scalded, maimed, dismembered, burned to death, smothered,drowned, smashed. Or half scalded and half smothered and then drowned.

Almost twohundredthousandtons:amedium-sizedharborfulofshipschalkedupbyhimalone.Afterawhilethere’sareportfrombelowthatmessageshavebeenreceived.

Kupschisincontactwiththesameconvoy;StackmannhasscoredahitonasixthousandGRT.I’mhitbywavesofweariness.ImustnotleanagainstthebulwarkortheTBT

—otherwiseI’llgotosleepstandingup.Dullemptinessinmyskull.AndIcanfeel a spasticwrithing inmyguts.Andpressure inmybladder.Stiff-legged, Iclimbdownintotheboat.ThechiefmechanicFranzisnotintheQuarters.Sincemakingsuchafoolof

himself, he’s kept out of sight. Actually this ought to be his time off. He’sprobablyafraidtosetfootoutoftheengineroom.As I emerge from thehead, theSecondWatchOfficer is at thedoor.Sohe

feelsthesameneed.Mygod,whatasight:thefaceofanelderlydwarf,creasedandpetulant.Hasthestubbleofhisbeardactuallyturneddarker?IstareathimdisconcertedlyuntilIrealizeit’sanillusion—theresultofhischalk-whiteskin.Thestubblesimplystandsoutmorethanbefore.Whenhereappears,heasksthestewardforcoffee.“Ithinklemonademightbebetter,”Isay.Thestewardpauses,irritated.TheSecondWatchOfficersprawlsinthecorner

ofthesofawithoutbotheringtoreply.“Lemonade,”Idecide.“Formetoo.”Sleepwoulddousbothgood.Sowhat’sthepointofcoffee?I’mjuststretching,seeingwhat itfeels like,whentheOldManappearsand

says,“Quick,somethingtoeat!”Thestewardcomesinwiththelemonadeandtwocups.“Strongcoffeeandcoldcutsforme,andmakeitfast!”saystheOldMan.Thestewardisbackinnotime.Thecookmusthavehadthefoodreadyand

waiting.TheOldMan chews, pauses, and chews somemore, staring straight ahead.

Thesilencebecomesoppressive.“Threemoreshipsgone,”hesays,butwithoutatraceoftriumphinhisvoice;

onthecontrary,itsoundssullenandgrating.“Damnnearlyustoo!”Thewordsslipout.

“Rubbish,” says the Old Man and stares holes in the air. He chews for aminute or two and then I hear him say, “At least we always carry our ownrespectablecoffinaroundwithus.We’rejustlikesnails.”Thisbanalimageseemstopleasehim.“Justlikesnails,”herepeats,nodding

tohimselfwithawearygrin.So that’s all there was to it: the enemy—just a few shadows above the

horizon.Firingthetorpedoes—notevenaperceptiblejolt.Theunearthlyflames—ourvictorybonfire,Nothingseemstofittogetheranymore:firstthehuntingfever, then the attack, thedepth charges, thehoursof torture.But evenbeforethat the soundsof the sinking ships—and thenwhenwe surfaced, theburninghulk—the third victim! Four torpedoes scored direct hits—and we’re deep indepression.TheOldManseems tocomeoutofakindof trance.Hestraightensupand

shoutsintothegangway,“Ship’stime?”“07.50hours!”“Navigator!”Heappearsinstantlyfromthecontrolroom.“Canwegetatthemagain?”“Difficult!”says thenavigator.“Unless…”Thenavigatorpausesandbegins

again.“Thatis,unlesstheychangetheirgeneralcourse.”“Wecanhardlycountonthat…”TheOldManfollowshimintothecontrolroom.Ihearfragmentsofdialogue

and theOldMan thinkingaloud. “Divedat22.53hours, let’s say23.00—nowit’s07.50,sowe’velostagoodeighthours.Howfastaretheymoving?Probablyabouteightknots,sothey’vemadesixty-fourmiles—ataveryroughguess.Togetwhere theyarenowwe’dneedmore thanfourhoursat full speed.But thefuel situation! It’s too longat full speed; and,besides, theconvoywillbe thatmuchfartherahead.”Nevertheless,hestillseemsunwillingtomakeanypreparationstoreverseour

course.TheChiefturnsupinthecontrolroom.Hedoesn’tsayaword,butthevery

wayhestandsthereisaquestioninitself:Whendoweturnback?

Despite my exhaustion I can’t sleep. I might as well be full of pep pills.Excitement ismakingme restless.Noone in theQuarters.Uproar in the bowcompartment.Mustbesomesortofhalf-heartedvictorycelebration,Ipushthehatchopen.InthemurkylightIcanmakeoutacircleofmensittingonthefloorplates,whicharenowbackinplace.Ihearraggedsinging.Theydragoutthelastline until it sounds like a chorale. It’s all very well for them to holler—theydidn’tseeathing,poordevils.If theyhadn’tbeen told that thedetonationsand shriekingof rendingmetal

camefromthewaterpressuresmashing thesidesandholdsofsinkingships—ourtargets—theywouldn’thavebeenabletomakeheadortailofthedeafeningunderwateruproar.

Thenavigatorisonwatch.Theglowhasdieddownbutisstillclearlyvisible.Suddenlyhecalls,“Somethingmoving!”Hisrightarmispointingoutoverthedark sea ahead.He sendsword below.Within seconds theOldMan is on thebridge.Itlookslikearaft,withabunchofmenonit.“Megaphone on deck,” orders the Old Man and then, “Closer!” He props

himselfhighagainstthebulwarkandroars,“What’sthenameofyourship?” inEnglish.Themendowntherearequicktoanswer,asifthismightbuythemthereward

ofarescuinghand:“ArthurAllee!”“Justaswelltoknow,”saystheOldMan.One of themen tries to cling on to our boat, butwe’ve already picked up

speed.Hehangsbetweenusandtheraft,Andthenheletsgoandsinksintoourfoaming wake. Teeth—all I can make out is two rows of teeth, not even thewhitesofhiseyes.Willanyonefindtheothers?We haven’t been going another quarter hour before a strange twinkling

appearsonthewaterinthepalelight.Tinyflashingpoints—likefireflies.Asweapproach,theyturnouttobelittlelampsdancingupanddown.Moresurvivors,hangingintheirlifepreservers.Icanclearlyseethemwavingtheirarms.Trying

toattractourattention?They’reprobablyshoutingtoo,butnoneofitreachesusbecausethewindisagainstthem,Stony-faced, theOldMan orders reduce speed and gives commands to the

helmsmanthatwillpreventtheboatfromcomingtooclosetothedriftingmen.Butwe’restillmovingsofastthatourbowwavecatchestwoorthreeofthem,slammingthemupandthendownagain.Aretheyreallywavingatusoristhatathreat,alastimpotentgestureagainsttheenemywhohasturnedthemovertothedeadlygraspofthesea?We all stand there frozen—six men with fear clawing at our hearts, each

knowingthatanyoneofthosementhrashingintheseamightbeus.Whatwillbecomeofthem?Theyescapedimmediatecatastrophewhentheirshipsank.Butisthereanyhopeforthem?HowcoldisthewaterinDecember?DoestheGulfStreamreachthisfar?Howlonghavetheyalreadybeenfloatingthere?It’shardto believe: the ships guarding the convoy’s rearmust have passed the disasterareahoursago.The Old Man stands motionless: a sailor who dares not help another in

distressbecauseanorderfromtheC-in-Cforbidsrescuingsurvivingpersonnel!There’s only one exception: flyers who have been shot down. They havevaluableinformation.Apparentlythey’reworththeirweightingold.Icanstillseethelittlelightslikewill-o’-the-wisps.“Portfive!”theOldMan

orders.“ThosewereNavymen,probablyfromacorvette.”TheSecondWatchOfficerappears.“Lookslikeaneruptingvolcano,”hesays

tohimself,meaningthefieryglow.Thelittlelightshavevanished.There’saflashthroughthesmoke.Afterawhileanexplosionrollsacrossthe

water like dull thunder, followed by yet another. A report comes up: “Soundroomtobridge:Depthchargesattwohundredsixtydegrees!”Allhellmusthavebrokenlooseintheconvoy.Thewindbringsusthesmell

ofburningoil:thestenchofdeath.Palemorninglight isrisingoverthehorizon.Theglowofthefiregradually

subsides.

I’mdeadonmyfeet,almostreadytodrop,whenthebridgereports,“Burningvesselahead!”It’s09.00.Nochoicebuttostruggleuptothebridgeagain.

“She’sbeenhit,”saystheOldMan.“Astraggler.We’llfinishheroff!”Heputsthebinocularstohiseyesandhisvoiceemergesfrombetweengloved

handsasheaddressesthenavigator.“Firstgetaforwardposition.She’sprobablysloweddown.Aboutfiveknots,I’dsay.”TheOldMangivesachangeofcourse:“Twopoints toport.”Thecloudof

smokegrowsrapidlylargerandslowlymovestostarboard.Weshouldbeabletosee masts and even superstructures by now, but the smoke has shroudedeverything.Anotherfiveminutes,thentheOldManorderstheboattodiveandleveloff

atperiscopedepth:forty-fivefeet.Afterawhilehegivesakindofbattlereportfromthetower:“Mustn’tlether

getaway—she’stacking—well,ifweholdonforawhile,she’lltackagain—justwait…Shiphas twomasts, four loadinghatches,nice little scow—abouteightthousand_riding low at the stern—fire aft. Think she’s also been burningamidships.”His voice becomes a snarl. “Chief! She’s turning thisway!” The periscope

musthavebeenunderwaterforamoment,blockinghisview.TheChiefmakesaface.Nowit’suptohimtotrimshippreciselysothatthe

Commandercanoperateasmuchaspossiblewithoutmovingtheperiscope.TheChiefcockshisheadforwardandtooneside,towardthePapenberg.Aseriesofruddermaneuvers.SuddenlytheOldManhasthemotorsrunfull

speed.Theboatgivesapalpableleapforward.Then I hear the FirstWatch Officer above me reporting that the tubes are

ready. The lateral directional angles are being transmitted to the lead-anglecalculatorinthetower,andfromthelead-anglecalculatortothetorpedoes.TheFirstWatchOfficerhaslongsincepulledthesafetycatchfromthefiring

mechanism.He’swaitingthereinthetowerfortheOldMantogetuslinedupfortheshot.Is all this never to end?Mymind is reeling. Am I dreaming? Did I hear:

“Opentorpedodoors”?“Tubeonestandby!”Twosecondspause:“Tubeone fire!”—“Connect tube

two!”I seem to be living in some vivid waking dream. The sound of dull

detonations,immediatelyfollowedbyamuchsharperone.

TheCommander’s voice seems to be coming froma great distance. “Lyingdeadinthewaternow!”Andthen,almostsubconsciously,Ihear,“Seemstobesinkingslowly.”Yetanother!Will thatbeadded toourscore?Thefog inmyhead isgetting

thicker.Weakness in the knees. Just keep on your feet. I hold on to the charttable,workmywayslowlytotheafterhatch.Mybunkseemsmilesaway.

Wasitanoisethatwokemesosuddenly?Peacereignsinthepettyofficers’quarters.Iclamberoutofmybunk.Feelmy

wayintothecontrolroomlikeablindman.PainineverylimbasifIwerejustoutoftraction.There’ssomelifeinthecontrolroom.Tin-earWillieandtheBibleScholarare

fussingabout.Istillcan’tmakeoutwhathappened.DidIkeelover?Passout?AmIawakeordreaming?ThenIhappentoseethewarlog.It’slyingopenonthedesk.12/13—yes,that

must be right. Crazy: in amonthChristmaswill be long past. No longer anysenseofthetimeofyear.Completelylost.Iread:

09.00Battle-damagedtanker.Runningatslowspeed,fiveknots.Courseabout120degrees.Attainforwardpositiontodeterminefiringdata.

10.00 Dive for underwater attack. Tanker turns toward us,makingrangeveryclose.

10.25 Fire torpedo. Hit scored amidships. Simultaneousmajorexplosion of fuel oil. Great quantities of smoke and flame.Escapingoilburningonwater.Hugesmokecloudinsky.Strongblaze. Steamer sinks deeper but continues to make headway.Someof crew still onboard.Threegunson superstructure aft.Cannot be used on account of smoke and heat. No lifeboatsvisible.

The fact that the tanker had guns is something theOldMan didn’t tell us.WheninGod’snamedidhewriteallthis?Howlateisitnow?

10.45Propellersounds.Movingforward.

10.52Renewed attack.Waiting too dangerous.May be a trap.Hitscoredbelowaftermast.Anotherblaze.Tankerstops.Settlesdeeperastern.Flankblownoutatpointofimpact.Fireonwaterspreadingquickly.Mustreverseenginesfast.

11.10&11.12Detonationsonhoard.Apparentlycompartmentsexploding.Gasolinecontainersormunitions.Tankerlyingdeadinthewater.

11.40Propellernoises.Turbines.Suspectdestroyer.Notvisibleinperiscope.

11.55 Surface. Tanks not blown. Destroyer lying motionlessbesidewreck.

Iwaspresentduringallthat.Buttilesecondtorpedoshot…?Everythingisajumble:justhowdidIcometobelyinginmybunk?

11.57Crashdive.Silentrunning.Retreat.

12.10 Surface. Intend to remain motionless and wait to seewhethertankersinks.Batteriescharged.Destroyer'smastvisibleonhorizonfromtimetotimeinneighborhoodofwreck.

13.24—14.50 Remain stopped. Tanker staying afloat. Fireslowlydyingout.

15.30Decidetoapproachagainandgivecoupdegrace.Tankeris broken in two at point of impact forward of the aftersuperstructures. Parts connected only by gangways. Completeloss certain. Foreship twisted sideways and awash. Lifeboatsdriftingempty.Destroyerhasobviouslyabandonedtanker.

16.40Approach closer and shoot holes in bow and sternwithmachinegun.

20.00Returnvoyagebegun.Otherboatsincontact.Dispatchedradiogram:"Sankdamagedtanker8000GRT.Returningtobase—UA."

23.00 Radio gram received: "From UX: Two large freighters00.31 SquareMaxRed. General course east. Ten knots. Havebeen out of contact for an hour. Am pursuing. Wind west-northwest7.Sea5,barometer1027andrising.Useofweaponsstillcurtailedbyweather."

So:threetorpedoesforthatscow!Acopybookperiscopeattack.Plusmachineguns.Icertainlyheardtheirchattering.JustwhendidIpassout?Istareatthepage.EventhelastentryisintheOldMan’shandwriting.Slowly

thewholethingbeginstoseemuncanny.Heevenhadtheenergytowriteupthewarlogduringthenight.Icanstillhearhimsay:“NothingmorenowbuthometoKassei,”andhisordertosteeracourseofforty-fivedegrees.AndIrealizeIknewthatwewereheadednortheast.It’s hard, pulling myself together. The diesel sounds… oddly irregular. Of

course—economyspeed!Economyspeed!IfIunderstoodtheChiefcorrectly,heknowshecandohis

damnedest to figureout the “most favorable” speed for the returnvoyage;butthefueloilstillwon’tlastustoSaintNazaire.Thenavigatorhasunfoldedabig seachart that showscoastal linesaswell.

I’mastonishedtoseehowfarsouthwe’vecome.TheOldMandoesn’tseemtobe worried about fuel, or does he really believe that the Chief has secretreservoirstotapintimeofneed?The green curtain in front of the Old Man’s cubbyhole is drawn. Asleep.

InstinctivelyIstarttotiptoe.Ihavetosteadymyselfwithbothhands,mylimbsacheso.The bunks in the officer’s quarters are occupied too. The first time we’ve

actuallyhadafullsleepingcar.Ifeellikeaconductor,checkingthateverything’sallright.

Everyone asleep—thatmeans the navigator has thewatch. The third—so itmustbeaftereightp.m.Mywatchhasstopped.Thenextcompartmentisquiettoo.ChiefmechanicFranz’sbunkisempty.Of

course:theengineroomwatchhasbeenondutysincesixo’clock.TheOldManhasn’tsaidanotherwordabouttheFranzincident.Willhehave

forgottenitentirely,ordoesheintendtofollowitupwithacourt-martial?Notasoundthroughthebowcompartmenthatch,A sleeping boat. No one awake, no one to talk to. I sit down on the chart

chest,stareblanklyahead,andfallpreytotormentingvisions.

IXPROVISIONING

Herrmannyells,“CommunicationsOfficer!”Ordinarysignalsaredecipheredbytheradioman,usingthecodemachine,and

enteredinplain text in theradio log,whichisshownto theCommandereverytwohours.WhenHerrmannputthisparticularmessagethroughhismachine,itmadeno

sense.Onlythefirstwords,“Officer’ssignal,”werecomprehensible.HencetheCommunications Officer (who is otherwise known as our Second WatchOfficer).Hemusthaveheardthereportcomein,forhescramblesoutofhisbunkwith

tousled hair, looking self-important, and sets up the decodingmachine on thetable. The Commander gives him today’s code-setting on soluble paper. (Theconnectingpinsofthemachinearesolubleinsaltwatertoo,sotherecanbenoaccidentswiththeenemy.)CommunicationsOfficer!That’sallweneed.Itmustbeaboutsomenewand

specialoperation,somethingreallytricky,supersecret.“Hurryitup!”saystheOldMan.The first word the SecondWatch Officer deciphers is “Commander.” That

meansthatwhenheputstheentiremessagethroughhisdecodingmachinehe’llget nothing out of it. In other words, this is in triple code. The Commanderhimselfmustnowdothewholejobagain,usingasettingknownonlytohimself.Significantglances:absolutelyunprecedented.Neverhappenedbeforeonthis

patrol.What’s in store for us?TheOldMandisappears into his holewith thedecoding machine and summons the First Watch Officer. The two rummageaboutamongthepapersforagoodfiveminutes.Theatmosphereistense.WhentheOldManfinallyreappears,hesaysnotaword.Everyoneissilent.“Interesting,”hemurmursfinally.Nothingelse, thoughalleyesarefixedon

him. Another several minutes go by before he finally speaks. “We’ve beenassignedanewportofcall.”

His voice is not quite as calm as he obviously would like. There must besomethingfishyaboutthisnewdestination.“Really?”theChiefsayscasually,as ifhedidn’tgiveadamnwherehewas

meanttoprovisiontheboatnext.“LaSpezia.”“What’sthat?”“ExactlywhatIsaid—LaSpezia.Haveyoujustgonedeaf,Chief?”The Commander pushes himself to his feet, steers his way back to his

cubbyhole, and disappears behind the curtain. We can hear him rummagingaroundagain.IcanseethemapofEurope—everyindentationofit.Atschool,nobodycould

beatmeatdrawingthemapofEuropefreehand.LaSpezia—Italy.Whatamess!There’sanemptyfeelinginthepitofmystomach.Deep-downterror;Iblinkandgasplikeafishoutofwater.TheSecondWatchOfficerstammers,“Butthatmeans—”“Yes, the Mediterranean!” the Chief interrupts sharply. “We seem to be

neededthere.”Heswallows,hisAdam’sapplejerkingconspicuously.“Soit’sofftoGibraltar!”“GibraltarechoestheSecondWatchOfficer,lookingatmeopen-mouthed.“DshebelalTank!”“What?”“GibraltarinArabic:Tank’sMountain.”Gibraltar: a rock inhabited by apes. Closeup of an apemotherwith infants

clingingtoherstomach.Glintofbaredteeth.ABritishcrowncolony.ThePillarsofHercules.A bridge for themigration of peoples betweenEurope andAsia.Africa olé! Tangier! Tang, tangier, tangiest! The Gibraltar convoys! Half theBritish fleet is aroundGibraltar. Somewhere inmyhead there’s a phonographneedle stuck in a groove: Gibraltar—Gi-bral-tar—plaster altar, plaster altar,plasteraltar.This won’t go down verywell with theOldMan either. He can hardly be

itching to explore theMediterranean. Let alone a trashy harbor somewhere inItaly.TheFührer decrees—andwe’re stuckwith the consequences!That’s themottoweneed:itshouldbeburnedincapitallettersonthelidofalemoncrateandhunginthecontrolroom.

NowIbegin tomakesenseof theradionewsreportsof the lastfewweeks.NorthAfrica,theheavyfightingatTobruk.TheBritishadvancewestwardalongthe coast road. The Mediterranean must be teeming with British convoyfreighters and fighting ships.Andnow theU-boats are supposed to go in andmopup?IvisualizeeverydetailofthemapoftheStraitofGibraltar,andonitIproject

ahideouslytangledsystemofdirectionfinders,antishippingnets,densecordonsofpatrolboats,mines,andeveryimaginablekindofnastysurprise.I’m still stunned, unable to think straight. But repeating themselves

somewhereinthebackofmyheadarethepersistentwords:DUEFORREPAIR.Ourscowiscertainlydueforrepairafterallthepunishmentwe’vetaken.Whatcanbe themeaningof thismadness? If only theOldManwouldbe frank foronce.“Fueloil—fueloil,”isthenextthingIhearfromthecontrolroom.Andagain,

“Fueloil.”OncefromtheOldManandoncefromthenavigator.Then,“Newcourseninetydegrees!”Ninetydegrees?Dueeast?Idon’tgraspthatatall.When theOldMancomesbackfromthecontrol roomandsitsdownat the

tablewithascowlonhisface,asthoughhe’sstilllostinhiscoursecalculations,itshouldbeuptotheChieftoaskthequestionweallwantanswered:Wheredowegetthefueloil?But theChief’smouthmight aswell be closedwith surgical tape.TheOld

Man spends a good five minutes clawing at his beard. Then he growls,“ProvisioningatVigo.”Vigo—Vigo—Vigo! Why there? Vigo—that’s in Spain, or is it Portugal?

WherethehellisVigo?TheChiefissuckinghislipssohardthathe’smakingcreasesinhischeeks.

“Mhm,”isallthatcomesoutofhim.“VeryconsiderateofHighCommand,”theCommandersaysderisively.“They

thinkofjustabouteverything,aftertheirownworries,thatis.Twohundredfiftymiles—orthereabouts.Isupposewecanmanagethatwithoutsails—eh,Chief—whatdoyousay?”ThecalendarshowsDecember14,thedayweweresupposedtoputinatour

base port.Now, instead of returning in French theywant us to do it Spanish;

afterthat,inItalian.Realcosmopolitanstuff.ReceptionwithcastanetsinsteadofwithGreaterGermany’sbrassband;hundred-year-oldsherryinsteadofbeer.Spanishgardens,Spanishfly,whatelseistherethat’sSpanish?“Impeccablearrangements,”saystheOldMan.“Noneedtogogglelikethat,

Chief.You’llgetplentyoffueloilandtorpedoes.Andfood,ofcourse—afull-scaleprovisioning,justlikehomeport!”Howdoes he knowall this, Iwonder.After all, the coded signalwas quite

short.“WhatMoreCouldHeartDesire?”saystheChief.TheOldManmerelylooksathimdisapprovingly.ItoccurstomethatthiswastohavebeentheChief’slastpatrol.It’scertainly

his twelfth, and this is his second boat. There aren’tmany these dayswho’vesurvived twelve patrols. And now—at the very end_they’re offering him aspecial treat. Let’s call a spade a spade: It’s a superb chance to drown—oneminutebeforeclosingtime.Ipullmyselftogetherandclimbthroughthehatch.Asyet thecrewhasnonotionofwhat liesahead.They’llbeprettygoddam

surprised.InsteadofthechannelatSaintNazaireandabrassband,aMacaroniportwithawholeloadoftroubleandgriefbeforewegetthere.But the “lords” seem to have got wind of the fact that something’s up.

Suddenlyeveryfaceistense,questioning.Thesilenceafterthesignalcouldonlymean that somecrucialmessagehadcome in.And theorder to thehelmsmansoonafterwouldbeperfectlyself-explanatorytoanyonewhousedhishead.Inanycase,we’renolongeroncourseforourhomeport.AllconversationceasesimmediatelywheneverIenteraroom.Anxiousfaces.

ButaslongastheOldManmakesnoannouncement,Imustdomybesttolookcasual.Hisexpression iseloquentenough: Is it evenpossible tobreak through into

theMediterranean in thefirstplace?And ifso,whatnext?Theenemyhas theadvantage of a number of nearby land bases, which means that its aerialsurveillance over the Mediterranean is incomparably tighter than over theAtlantic.Canboatsoperate there at all during thedaytime?Given reallygoodlighting conditions and angle of vision, they say a plane can spot aU-boat asmuchastwohundredfeetdown—asakindofshadow.Thebosun’sbroadforeheadisdistinguishedbyadiagonalscarrunningfrom

hisrighteyebrowtothebaseofhisnose.Itturnsreddishwheneverhe’sexcited.Rightnowit’sgonepuce.Thenavigatorhasnosuchreliable“indexofemotions.”He’sgottheperfect

poker face: a classic example of a fixed type. He changes places with theCommander at the chart table and starts behaving like a tiger with his prey,growlingat anyonewhoevencomesnearhim, sonoonecan seewhichcharthe’sworkingonwithhisprotractoranddividers.“We’vebeenrunningonadifferentcourseforthelasthournow,”saysTurbo

inalowvoiceashecomesthroughthecontrolroomfromastern.“Brightboy,youdon’tmissathing!”Hackersneers.“Theyoughttouseyou

forairplanecover.”Anhouralready!Awholehour,sixtyminutes?Don’tmakemelaugh!What

doesanhourmeantous?Howmanyhavewespentwallowingaroundaimlessly,howmanyhavewewasted just toget us through the routine.Of course, theirvaluebegantorisethemomentwestartedforhome.Rightnowitwouldstillbeahundredfortyhoursbeforeweputin—assumingnormalconditions.Ahundredforty units of time—sixtyminutes each—at fuel-hoarding cruising speed, andalwayshopingthere’llbenoenemyaircraft.Atfullspeedwe’dprobablymakeitinnomorethanthirty.Butfullspeedisoutofthequestion.Everything’soutofthequestion,asamatteroffact—gonetohell.Changeofplan!Cruising speed. The crew spends the second hour racked with nervous

curiosity.TheOldMancontinuestomaintainhissilence.Onmywayintothepettyofficers’quarterstofetchsomewritingmaterialsI

hear,“Funnykindofcourse…”—“Wellyes,maybethepowers-that-bewantustoadmirethesunsetintheBayofBiscay.”—“PuttingittoagirlinSaintNazaire,a really good fuck; you canwrite that all off.Thewhole thing’s beginning tostink.”Silence.Then I hear the familiar crackling of the loudspeaker. Finally—the

Commander!“Attention.We’vebeengivenanewportofcall.LaSpezia.Asyouknow,that

liesintheMediterranean.ProvisioninginVigo.OnthecoastofSpain.”Nocomment,notasyllableofexplanation,noexcuses—nothing.Hesimply

says,“End,”andthere’sanotherlastcrackle.

Theoff-dutymatesstaredumblyintospace.TheE-mateRademacherlooksathispieceofbutteredbreadas though ithadbeen forcedonhimbya stranger.FinallyFrenssenbreaksthespell.“Oh,shit!”“Myass!”isthenextexclamation.Themeaningoftheorderisgraduallydawningonthem:noreturntothebase

that has become a second home to them all. No chance of a stylish landingmaneuver,toshowoffinfrontofthethenewshoundsandthecarbolicbrigadeallstandingtherewaitingwithbigbunchesofflowersclutchedinfrontoftheirstifflystarchedaprons.Christmasleave?That’soverboardtoo.They’re getting angry. “A helluvaway to treat us!”—“What they need is a

kick in the ass!”—“If you don’t like it you can get out and walk!”—“Jesus,who’dhavethoughtit!”I look for the ensign. He’s crouched on his bunk, hands hanging down

betweenhisknees,faceaswhiteasasheet,andeyesstaringvacantlyinfrontofhim.“It’llmake theChief happy,” saysFrenssen; “we’veusedup almost all our

supplies. Almost no oil left and practically no fish, so why should wefuss?”—“But Spain’s neutral.”—“Drop it. Someone else can worry aboutthat!”—“Looks likered tape tome!”—“Youcould tellsomethinglike thiswassure to happen just by sticking a finger up your own ass!”—“We’re going tohavesomerealfun!”

Strickensilencestillreignsinthebowcompartment.Therattlingofabucketbetweenthetorpedotubessoundsunnaturallyloud.“Itsimplywon’twork,”Ariosaysfinally.“Don’ttrytodothethinkingforHighCommand,”repliesDunlop.“Haveyou

neverheardofprovisioning?”“Butwhat’sitallgottodowithSpain?What’sthenameofthatdump?”“Vigo.”“Shit!”saysBockstiegel.“Shit,shit!”Andthen,“Shitonhorseback.”“But they’re—they really are—stark, ravingmad!”TheGigolo is stuttering

withindignation.“TheMediterranean!”Heputssomuchdisgustintothewordyou’dthinkhewasdiscussingastinkingsewer.

Turbo is worried. “They’ve probably written us off completely in SaintNazaire.What’stobecomeofourduffelbags?”“They’llbedeliveredwiththerestofourestate!”Arioreassureshim.“Shutyourtrap!”shoutstheGigolo.Noonecantakethatjoke.“ChristmaswiththeMacaronis!Who’dhaveguessedit?”“Howd’youmean,withtheMacaronis?Ifyougetleave,itdoesn’tmattera

shitwhetheryoutravelstraightthroughFranceorstraightthroughItaly…”“UpthroughItaly,”Hagencorrectshim.“Wellyes,”saysArioresignedly.He’sobviouslythinkingwhatnoonedares

sayaloud:Ifweevergetthatfar…“Gibraltar—what’ssobadaboutthat?”theBibleScholarinquirestentatively.“Stupidstaysstupid;pillswon’thelp,”istheanswerhegetsfromoneofthe

hammocks. And from a lower bunk, “A creature like that’s still alive—andSchillerhadtodie!”“Hasn’t an inkling of geography; he’s pathetic! You’ve probably never

noticed thewayGibraltar’s constructed.Man, it’s as narrow as a virgin’s slit.We’llhavetosmearourscowwithVaselinetogetthrough.”“It’sbeenknowntohappen,”Hagensaysfinally.“Whatd’youmean?”“A fellowgetting stuck andnot being able to get out again.Happened to a

classmateofmine.Therehewasjammed,likeinavise.“You’rekidding!”“Ipromiseyou,it’strue!”“Whathappenednext?”“Nothingworks,sotheygetthedoctor.Hehastogivetheladyashot…”Turbo,alwaysastickler forprecision, isn’t satisfied.“Andhowd’yougeta

doctorifyou’restuckinsidethelady?”ForthemomentGibraltarhaslostitsterrors.“Noidea.Scream?”“Orwaittillthesnowfalls!”

IfindtheCommanderinthecontrolroom.“Achangeisasgoodasarest,”Iremark.“Terrific!”hesaysmorosely,thenturnstowardmeandstares.Asusual,he’s

chewingonthestemofhiscoldpipe.Westandfacingeachotherlikestatuesforawhileuntilhebeckonsmetositdownbesidehimonthechartchest.“Protectingoursupplylinesisprobablywhattheycallit.Africa’sburningand

we’resupposedtoplayfiremen.It’slunacy—U-boatsintheMediterraneanwhenwehaven’tevenenoughintheAtlanticrightnow…”Itrytobesarcastic.“HardlytherightseasonfortheMediterranean.TheC-in-

Cslippedup…”“Thisdoesn’tseemtohavebeenhisidea.Afterall,hedideverythinghecould

tokeepusfrombeingusedforweatherreporting.Weneedeveryboatforfront-line combat.Why else did theybuild theVII-C’s, except for theBattle of theAtlantic?”Up to now, I think, we’ve been lording it over the world as a self-reliant

fighting ship. Nowwe’re no more than a pawn of higher strategy—our noseturnedtowardSpainbyremotecontrol;ourplansforthetriphome,alongwitheverythingthathingesonthem,reducedtonothing…“He’s having quite a time of it, the Chief,” the Commander begins again

haltingly.“It’shiswife—she’sexpectingachildsometimeinthenextfewdays.Wehadeverythingsowellworkedout forhis leave.Evenallowingfora longpatrol.Butofcourseweneverfiguredonsomethinglikethis.Theydon’tevenhave theirownapartment.Completelybombedoutwhilehewason thepatrolbefore last. They live with his wife’s parents in Rendsburg. Now he’s afraidthingsmay gowrong. Understandable. There’s something thematter with hiswife.Shealmostdiedinlaborthelasttime,andthechildwasstillborn.”It’sthefirsttimethatanyone’sprivatelifehasbeendiscussed.WhyistheOld

Mantellingmeallthis?Itisn’tatallhisstyle.AnhourafterdinnerIgettheanswer.TheOldManisbusywritingupthewar

logwhenhenotices that I’m trying togetpasthim.Hesays,“Justaminute!”andpushesmeontohisberth.“IintendtoputyouashoreinVigo—youandtheChief. The Chief’s due to leave the boat after this patrol anyway—that’sofficial.”“But—”

“Let’snothaveanyheroics.I’mworkingonthesignalrightnow.Somehow,youandtheChiefaregoing tobeguided throughSpain—disguisedasgypsiesforallIcare.”“But—”“Nobuts.It’stoochancyforanyonetotrysingly.I’vethoughtitallout.We

haveagentstherewho’llgetyouthroughallright.”Mythoughtsareinchaos.Leavetheboatnow?Howwillthatlook?Straight

throughSpain?Whatdoeshethinkhe’supto?IfindtheChiefinthecontrolroom.“Isupposeyouknowalready—theOld

Man’sgoingtoputusbothashore.”“Whatonearthareyoutalkingabout?”“We’rebeingputoffatVigo—youandI.”“Howso?”TheChiefsucksinhischeeks.Icanseetheideaworkinginhim.

Finallyhejustsaysmatteroffactly,“AllIwanttoknowishowtheOldMan’sgoing tomake outwith thatmuttonhead—especially now!”He says nomore,andittakesmeafewmomentstorealizethatthemuttonheadinquestionishissuccessor.Andtheensign,Ithink—ifonlywecouldtaketheensignalongtoo.

NexttimeIcomethroughthecontrolroom,thenavigator’satthecharttable.Now at last our route can give him straight lines to draw on his chart again.Everyone’sbusy.Noonelooksup;they’reallprivatelytryingtocometotermswiththeirdisappointmentandtheirfears.

Bytheseconddaythefearhassubsided.TherearestillfourdaysatcruisingspeedbetweenusandtheactualapproachtotheSpanishcoast.Thecrewhasgothold of themselvesmuch quicker thanmight have been expected, consideringthelowleveloftheirmorale.FrommyberthIhearthefamiliarchatterresume.“Last time I had real luck: all the way from Savenay to Paris in a

compartment with no one but a girl from the signal corps. It was reallysomething:noneedtoworkupasweat,onceyou’rein—youjustletthetraindo

thebangingforyou.Butwhenwewentthroughthejunction,Iwasalmostflungoutofher.”“Ineverdoitincars.Noroomforaction.It’smuchbetterifIgethertosquat

onthefrontseat,whileIramitinfrombehind—standingupoutside,getit?”IlookedthroughthecrackinthecurtainrightintoFrenssen’sface,alightwith

memories.“Itrainedonce.MylittlechickstayedniceanddrybutIwassoakingwet.Itcamedownofftherooflikeoutofadrainpipe.ButthatwayIcouldwashmycockoffrightaway!”“Didyougobareback?”“Sure.Themouseknowshowtobecareful.”LaterIhear:“…andthenhewentandgothimselfagirldespitethefacthe’d

alreadybeenmarriedforthreeyears.Wordofhonor,they’relivingtogether,allthreeofthem.”“Well,well.”“Hecan’tbeaverysensitivetype.”“Whoneedssensitivity?”

It’sshortlybeforenoononthethirddayaftertheGibraltarorder,neartheendofhiswatch,whenthenavigatorcallsdowntoreportafloatingobject.IclimbontothebridgebehindtheCommander.“Forty-fivedegreestostarboard,”saysthenavigator.Theobjectisstillaboutthreethousandfeetaway.TheCommanderordersus

to steer for it. It’s not a lifeboat—more like a formless, flat lump. The sea iscalm.The thing seems tobemoving towardus.Over ithangsa strangecloudlike a swarm of wasps. Seagulls? The Commander’s mouth tightens and heinhales sharply;otherwisehemakesno sound.He lowershisglasses: “Yellowspots—that’saraft!”Now I can recognize it inmy own glasses.An unmanned raftwith barrels

alongthesides.Barrels?Oraretheyfenders?“Therearepeopleonit!”thenavigatorsaysfromunderhisbinoculars.“Sothereare.”

The OldMan gives a change of course. Our bow is now pointing exactlytowardtheraft.“Noonemovingoverthere!”I stare through my binoculars. The drifting object grows steadily larger.

Aren’tthoseseagullcriesIhear?TheCommandersendsbothlookoutsdownfromthebridge.“Navigator,takeovertheirsectors!Nosightforthecrew,”hemurmurstome.Heorders thehelmtoport,andweapproach inanextendedlefthandcurve.

Ourbowwavebrushes thecorpses thathangin thewateraroundtheraft.Oneafteranother,theybeginnoddinglikemechanicaldollsinastorewindow.Fivedead,allbound tight to the raft.Whyaren’t they lyingon it?Whyare

theyhanging in theratlines?Thewind!Were theyseekingprotectionfromthebitingwind?Cold and fear, how long can one endure them?How long does one’s body

warmthresisttheicyparalysisthatgripstheheart?Howquicklydoone’shandsdie?There’soneof thecorpses thatkeepsrisinghigheroutof thewater thanthe

others,makingstiffbowsthatseemtogoonandon.“Nonameontheraft,”saystheOldMan.Anotherofthedeadseamenisfloating,bloated,onhisback.There’snoflesh

leftonthebonesofhisface.Theseagullshavepeckedawayeverythingsoft.Onhisskullthereremainsonlyasmallscrapofscalpcoveredwithblackhair.“Seemswegotheretoolate.”TheOldMangivesorderstotheengineroom

andhelmsman,soundinghoarse.“…thehelloutofhere,”Ihearhimmutter.Thegullssweepoverus,shrillandevil.IwishIhadashotgun.“Thosewerepeoplefromaliner!”GoodthingtheOldMan’stalking.“Theywerewearing thoseold-fashioned life jackets.Youdon’tusually find

themonwarships anymore.”And after awhile hemutters, “Badomen,” andgivesanorder to thehelmsman.Hewaits another tenminutesbeforeorderingthelookoutsbackondeck.Ifeelillandclimbbelow.BarelytenminuteslaterandtheCommandercomes

downtoo.Heseesmesittingonthechartchestandsays,“That’salmostalways

theway it iswithgulls.Oncewe found two lifeboats.Everyone in themdeadtoo.Frozen,probably.Andallofthemhadlosttheireyes.”Howlonghadtheybeendriftingwiththeraft?Idon’tdareaskhim.“Thebest thing,” he says, “is to hit a gasoline tanker.Thatway everything

blowsupatonce.Theseproblemsdon’tarise.Withcrudeoil,unfortunately,it’sdifferent.”Although the bridge lookouts couldn’t have seen much before the

Commandersentthembelow,therehasobviouslybeentalkintheboat.Themenspeak in monosyllables. The Chief must have noticed something. He staresquestioninglyattheOldMan,thenquicklylowershiseyes.Inthewardroomthere’snodiscussionatall.Notevenoneofthehard-nosed

commentsthatusuallydisguisethemen’struefeelings.Youmightthinkthatthiswasaparticularlythick-skinned,unfeelingbunch,thatothermen’sfateleftthemcold.Butthesilencethathassuddenlyfallen,theirritabilitythathangsintheair,prove otherwise. They’re probably seeing themselves hanging helplessly on araftordriftinginaboat.Everyoneonboardknowshowsmallthechancesareofa raft being discovered in this area, andwhat fate awaits it even if the sea iscalm.Men who lose their ship in a convoy can cherish some hope of beingpickedup—searchunitsgotowork;it’sknownwherethedisasteroccurred,andrescue operations are begun at once. But thesewere notmen from a convoy.Otherwisewewouldhaveseenwreckage.

TheapproachtoVigoisn’teasy.Fordayswe’vebeenunabletogetaproperfixonourposition.Persistentfog.Nosun,nostars.Thenavigatorhasdonehisdeadreckoningaswellashepossiblycan,butit’simpossibleforhimtoestimatethedrift—heavenknowshowfarwearefromourcalculatedposition.Swarmsofgulls accompany the boat. They have black wing sheaths and narrower andlongerpinions than theAtlanticgulls. Ihave the impression that Icanalreadysmellland.Suddenly I’m chokedwith longing for terra firma.How does it look now?

Lateautumn_earlywinter.Theonlywaytojudgehowlateintheseasonweare,hereonboard,isbywatchingthenightsdrawin.Aschildrenweusedtomakepotatofiresatthistimeoftheyearandflyhomemadekitesthatwerebiggerthanwewere…

ThenIrealizehowwrongIam.Potatofiretimeislongpast.Indeed,I’velostall real sense of time, But still I see the milky-white smoke from our fire,winding its way over the damp earth like a giganticmaggot. The brushwoodwon’tburnproperly: it takes therisingwindtomake thefireglowred.Weletourpotatoesbakeinthehotashes…theimpatienttestingwithhardstickstoseewhetherthey’redone…theblackskinthatcracklesasitsplitsopen.andthenthefirst bite into their mealy insides… the taste of smoke on our tongues… thesmellofsmokethatclingstoourclothesfordaysafterward!Chestnutsinallourtrouserpockets.Fingersyellowfromcrackingwalnuts.Thebitsofwhitemeatthat taste good only if you’re careful to peel the yellow skin out of all thecrevices.Otherwisethey’rebitter.

06.00.Thedarkcircleofthetowerhatchswaysbackandforth;Icantellitsmotion

bythewanderingof thestars.Squeezingpast thehelmsman,who’s jammedinamonghisinstrumentsalongthewallontheforwardsideofthetower,Iclimbup.“Permissiontocomeonthebridge?”“Jawohl!”ThevoiceoftheSecondWatchOfficer.Sunrise.Theseatodayisaminiaturerangeoffoothills,allround,smooth,undulating

hummocksandintersectinglines.Thehillsrollpastundertheboat,cradlingusupanddown.Agooddozenseagullscircleusonmotionlesswings.Theystretchouttheirheadsandlookatuswithstonyeyes.It turns foggyduring thenavigator’swatch.He looksworried.Thisclose to

thecoast,notknowing theship’spreciseposition,andnowfog toboot—therecouldn’tbeaworsecombination.Sincewehavetohaveabearingofsomekind,whatever the cost, the Old Man orders the diesels slow ahead and we creepclosertothecoast.TheFirstWatchOfficerisalsoonthebridge.Weallpeerforwardintentlyinto

thewaterymilk soup.Something solidifies intoa lump in thegraygloomandquicklytakesshape:afishingboatcuttingacrossourbow.

“Wecouldalwaysaskhimwhereweare,”growlstheOldMan.“FirstWatchOfficer,d’youknowSpanish?”“Jawohl,HerrKaleun!”IttakesawhilefortheFirstWatchOfficertorealizetheOldMan’sjoking.Graduallythewindrises,thefogthinsout,andarockycliffsuddenlyrisesin

frontofus.“Goddammit!”theOldMansays,“Stopengines—stop!”We’vecomemuchtooclose.“Let’shope therearenoSpaniardsout there,”hemutters. “Well, it’shardly

theweatherforanouting.”Our bow wave collapses. The sudden silence takes my breath away. The

bridge begins to sway. The Old Man is staring through his binoculars, andKriechbaumtooissearchingthecoastintently.“Goodwork, navigator!” theOldMan says finally. “We seem to be almost

exactlywherewewantedtobe—exceptabittooclose!Wellnow,let’swormourwayniceandquietlyuptotheentranceandthentakealookatthetraffic.Bothenginesslowspeedahead!Steerthirtydegrees!”Thehelmsmanacknowledgestheorder.“Waterdepth?”theCommanderasks.TheFirstWatchOfficerbendsoverthehatchandrepeatsthequestion.“Twohundredfiftyfeet!”comestheanswerfrombelow.“Continuoussoundings!”Theveilsofmistaresweepinginoncemore.“Perhaps not altogether unfavorable,” says the Commander. “A kind of

camouflageovercoat.Looksharp,men;seethatwedon’tsmashanyonetobits!”We’vemade landfall on this coast a good two hours earlier than originally

calculated.“Thebest thing, it seems tome,” theOldManbeginsslowly,“is touse the

northernentrance—underwater—thenmaybeoutthesamewayagain.Spendthenight provisioning and then beat it before daybreak, say around four o’clock.Navigator,ifpossible,Iwanttobebesidetheprovisionshipby22.00.Sixhours—thatshouldbeenough.We’lljusthavetohurrylikehellwiththetransfers!”

No lights, no bearings, no entrance buoys. Nothing. Even in the easiestharborsthere’sapilottohelpeverysteamerenteranddepart;evenwiththemostup-to-datechartsandtheclearestpossibleweather,theremustalwaysbeapilotonboard—onlyforus,theseregulationsaretotallyirrelevant.Theveilsofmistriseagain.“Neitherherenorthere.BettertowaittilldarkIheartheOldMansay.Ileavethebridge.ShortlythereaftertheOldManordersusdowntoperiscopedepth.Usingtheelectricmotorswewormourwaygraduallycloserandclosertothe

harborentrance.The Old Man sits in the tower in the periscope saddle, his cap turned

backwardthewayold-fashionedmotorcycleridersusedtowearthem.“What’sthatnoise?”heasksurgently.Wealllisten.Icanclearlyhearahigh-

pitched,uniformswishing,overlaidbyadull,hammeringsound.“Noidea!”saysthenavigator.“Odd!”TheOldManletstheperiscopemotorrunforasecondandthenstopsit,soas

toleaveourasparagusstalkstickingtheminimumdistanceout.“To the sound room: What do you have, bearing one hundred twenty

degrees?”“Asmalldiesel!”“Probably some little coastal vessel. And another—and another—and yet

another,mustbeagatheringoftheclans.Butthatone’smoving—Duck!”Andafterawhile:“Badvisibilityagain.Canhardlyseeadamnthing,we’llhavetofindsometubandfollowherin.”“Ahundredtwenty-fivefeet!”reportsthemateatthehydrophone.“Howwould itbe ifwe justanchoredhere?” theOldManasks through the

hatch.Thenavigatorissilent.Obviouslyhe’snottakingthequestionseriously.Anchor?Actually,wedocarryoneofthosesymbolsofhopearoundwithus,

justlikeasteamer.IwonderifaU-boathaseverusedone.TheCommandercallstheFirstWatchOfficertorelievehimattheperiscope

andclimbsdownheavily.“Intwohoursit’llbedark;that’swhenwe’llrunin—

onewayoranother!”“Howarewegoingtoproceedafterthat?”Iask.“Exactlyaccordingtoplan,”isthedryanswer.The “p” of plan is spat out frombetween his teeth—hisway of expressing

contemptforthewholearrangement.Lateron,however,hedoesfinallycondescendtoexplain.“Amongthesecret

documents we brought with us are instructions to cover precisely thiscontingency.We’vebeenradioedourexactarrivaltime.OuragentsinVigowilltakecareofwhat’snecessary—iftheyhaven’tdonesoalready.”“Nicework,”murmurstheChief.“Youcansaythatagain.”

“Timetosurface,”thenavigatorannounces.“Okay,then,let’sgo!”TheOldMangetstohisfeet.Blue-grayeveningtwilight.Thewindcomesoffthecoast,bringingthesmell

ofland.Iraisemynoselikeadogsniffingquicklytoidentifythelayersofodor,thejumbledsmells:rottingfish,fueloil,rust,burnedrubber,tar—butoverandthroughitall there’ssomethingmore: thesmellofdust, thesmellofearth, thesmellofleaves.Thedieselsspringtolife.TheCommanderhasapparentlydecidedtopushon

regardless.Apairofrunninglightsappears,twinkling.Red,green,thenwhiteaswell—

andhigherthantheothers—thatonemustbeatthemasthead.TheSecondWatchOfficerreportsashipedgingtowardus,TheOldManturnshisglasses,standsmotionlessforawhile,thenordersour

speed reduced.“Well,doesn’t look—doesn’t lookatallbad.She’splanning torunin,noquestionaboutthat!\Vhatwouldyousay—hmm?Let’sjustfollowherfor awhile—seems to be another of those small coastal steamers but a sturdyone.Makesalotofsmoke.Mustbeusingoldfeltbootsforfuel.Wishitwerealittledarker!”The Old Man hasn’t had the tanks completely blown, so our upper deck

barely rises above thewater.Unless someone sees us from the side,we could

hardlyberecognizedasaU-boat.The Old Man turns the bow toward the starboard running light of the

approachingvessel.Seenfromthesteamer,we’relyingagainstastretchofcoastthatobscurestheoutlineofourtower:alwaysrememberyourbackground—theoldrule!TheOldManhasthehelmputslowlyfarthertostarboard,soastokeepthe

greenlightoverournetguarduntilthesternlightofthesteameralsocomesintoview. Only then does the Old Man increase our speed by one notch. We’retravelingdirectlyinherwake.Icansmellthesmoke.“Phew!”exclaimstheOldMan.“Forgod’ssake,keepasharplookout,incase

anything cuts across our bow!Theremust be ferries and other boats like thataround!”He’ssearchingwithhisglasses.Suddenly there’sashadowtostarboard.No

timetoturnaside!Wepassbysoclosethatwecanseeaspotoflight:nodoubtaboutit—it’samansmokingacigarette.Ifhe’dbeenpayinganyattentionhe’dhaveseenus,astrangeshadowhalfhiddeninsmoke.Now we have three or four large shadows in front of us. Are they

approaching?Orgoingaway?What’sgoingon?“Allkindsoftraffic,”mutterstheOldManfromunderhisglasses.Lights—sternlanterns—adistantrumbling.“Theyseemtobelyingatanchor,”Ihearthenavigatorsay.“D’youthinkwe’vealreadyreachedtheinnerroadstead?”“Seemsso!”Awholenecklaceoflightsspringsupinthedistance,strungdelicatelyalong

thehorizon,butbrokenhereandthere;thatcouldmeanapierwithshipslyingalongside—andtheshadowsoftheshipscausingthedarkspaces.Steamerstostarboard,too.Theirpositionishardtomakeout.Iftheywereall

swingingfromtheiranchorsinthesamedirection,itwouldbesimple.Butonevessellieswithhersterntowardus,whiletheonenextdoorisshowingherbow.Despitethedarkness,theirsilhouettesareclearagainstthedistantlights.“Lyingbetweenfreighters,apparently,”mutterstheOldMan.I’ve no notion how he expects to find the right steamer—the one that’s to

provisionus,theGermanshipWeser.“Ship’stime?”

“21.30hours!”“It’sallgoingperfectly.”TheOldMangivestwofull-rudderordersinquicksuccession.Thereseemto

bedifficultcurrentsjusthere.Thehelmsman’sworkinghard.Jesus! If only we could use our searchlight. Stumbling about in a strange

houseinthedarkissheermadness.In any case, there are steamers by the dozen and apparently warships too.

Over there, threepoints to starboard, is something thathas tobe agunboatorsmalldestroyer.TheOldManorderstheenginesstopped.Wekeepmovingforawhileunder

ourownmomentum,andaswemove,ourbowswingsaroundtostarboard.“Nowallwehavetodoisfindtherighttub!”IheartheOldMansay.More engine-roomcommands, then steeringorders, thenmore engine-room

commands, and another staccato stream of steering orders. A zigzag coursebetweenthebigshadows.Orderstothehelmsmanandtheengineroomcomespittingoutlikemachine-

gunfire.“I’mgoingmad!”mutterstheSecondWatchOfficer.“Thatwon’tgetthejobdone,”growlstheOldMan.“There’sastreetcar!”exclaimstheSecondWatchOfficer.Yes—a blue lightning flash, a streetcar! As though to prove the point, the

trolleystrikestwoorthreemoresparksfromtheoverheadcable.Infrontofusliesahugedarkmass.Itmustbetheoverlappingsilhouettesof

twoorthreeships.“Someone’sflashing!”thenavigatorreports.“Where?”I starehard.Fora fractionof a seconda tinypointof light flaresup in the

midstofthehugeshadows.The Old Man observes it silently. The cigarette glow reappears, goes out,

comesonagain.“Thesignal!”saystheOldManandtakesadeepbreath.Incredulously,Istandwithmyeyesrivetedtotheconstantlyblinkingdot.It

can’tbemorethanasmallflashlight!

“Thethingstheyexpectofus!”Iexclaiminvoluntarily.“Anythingbrighterwouldbeconspicuous,”saystheOldMan.Ourboat edges slowly closer to thedarkmass that gradually resolves itself

into threeshadows: threeships ina row.The light is flashing from themiddleone.Theshadowssteadilybegintodrawapart.Westeerdirectlyforthecenterone. It’s lying at one hundred twenty degrees, then one hundred.Gradually itrises,becomesabarrierwall.TheOldManordersus to turn.Suddenly IhearGerman voices. “\Vatch out! Fender! Get amove on!”—“Don’t go overboardthere,man!”—“Anotherfenderhere!”Thestripofblackwaterbetweenthebulgeofourportbuoyancytankandthe

ship’ssteepsideissteadilyshrinking.Nowwehavetotiltourheadstoseethefiguresofthemenbendingovertherailingaboveus.Ourbosun is on theupper deck, herdinghismenback and forthwithhalf-

mutedcurses.Fourorfivefendersareloweredfromabove.“Atleasttheyknowhowtotieup!”saystheOldMan.“Maybethey’vehadsomepractice.Ord’youthinkwe’rethefirst?”Noanswer.Ashipisanchorednearbyinablazeoffloodlights,makingamurderousdin

asitloadscargofromsomelighter-ships.Thethuddingofthewinchesmarksthebeat.“Justaswellthere’sallthatnoise,”saystheOldMan.ThedimlightfromtheWeser’sportholesistheonlyilluminationallowedus.Adullbump.“Wonderhowwe’resupposedtogetup!”ThenaJacob’sladderisdroppedovertheside.I’mallowedupdirectlyafter

theCommander.Christ, I’mstiff—noexercise!Hands reachdown tomefromabove. Iron plates resound undermy feet. Someone seizesmy right hand. “Acordialwelcome,HerrKapitanleutnant!”“No,no—I’mnot—that’stheCommander!”Dazzled,westandinthedoorwaytothesaloon.Snow-whitetablecloths,two

bunches of flowers, paneled walls polished like mirrors, attractively drapedcurtains over the portholes, thick carpet… I move in a kind of dream.Ornamentalplantseverywhere—inpotsonthefloor,suspendedbychainsfrom

theceiling.Mygod!Upholsteredfurniture,andbunchesofgrapesinabowlonthetable.Profounddistrustsettlesinthepitofmystomach.Anyminutenowtherewill

bealoudbang,andthiswholeapparitionwilldisappear.Istareintothebeamingparson’sfaceof thestrangeCaptainas ifhewerea

creature from another planet: white goatee, monk-like tonsure surrounding atannedbaldspot,collarandtie.Someoneelseshakingmyhand.Asonorousvoicethatseemstocomefroma

great distance. More confusion. God knows the OldMan might have put onsomethingotherthanthateternal,disgustingsweater!Afterall,we’reindifferentsurroundings. How can the Captain of theWeser know that this old-clothespeddlerisourCommander?Icanfeelmyselfblushing,buttheOldManandtheCaptainoftheWeserimmediatelygettogether:vigorousshakingofhands,grins,animatedconversation.We’reurgedtositdown.TheofficersoftheWeserappear.Christ!Allinfull

dressuniform.Morehandshakingandgrinning.TheOldManmighthavewornhisdecorationsforonce.TheWeser’sCaptain ispositivelyoverflowingwithkindness.Likeacaptain

inapicturebook:wrinkled,crafty,withbigreddishears.Hewantstodoitallforus aswell as he possibly can. The ship’s bakery has been hard atwork sincemorning.There’severything:cakes,freshbread,whateverwewant.Mymouthbeginstowater.“Christmascakestoo,and,ofcourse,freshrolls,”saystheCaptain.IcanstillheartheChief’sdescriptionofhisdreamfood:freshrolls,melting

yellowbutter,andhotcocoa.TheCaptain’svoicegoesoninaghostlychant:“Freshsausages,boiledpork

—slaughtered just this morning—fried sausages. Every kind of fruit, evenpineapples. Unlimited supplies of oranges, fresh figs, bunches of grapes,almonds…”God in heaven!We’ve landed in theGarden of Eden. It’s been years since

I’veseenorangesorpineapples,andneverinmylifehaveIeatenfreshfigs.TheCaptainrelishesourspeechlessastonishment.Thenhemolionsacrossthe

tablelikeamagicianandinlessthanaminutegreatplattersofsausageandhamarecarriedin.

Tearsstartinmyeyes.TheOldManisjustasflabbergasted.Herisesfromhischairasifallthisprodigalityistoomuchforhimandstammers,“I’lljustgoandtakeaquicklook—seehowthingsaregoing.”“Everything’s going just fine—it’s all moving along—everything’s going

splendidly!”he’sreassuredfromallsides,andtheCaptainpusheshimbackintohisseat.The Old Man sits there embarrassed and stutters, “Fetch the First Watch

Officer—andtheChief…”I’malreadyonmyfeet.“TheSecondWatchOfficerandtheSecondEngineeraretostayonboardfor

thetimebeing!”“All thecrewcanbathe,” theWeserCaptainshoutsafterme,“in twoshifts.

Everything’sready.”

WhenIreappearintheunaccustomedglareofthesaloon,theOldManisstillgrinning with embarrassment. He fidgets uncertainly in his chair, apparentlyuneasyatsuchpeaceandquiet.TheCaptainwantstoknowhowtheboat’smissionworkedout.TheOldMan

squirms.“Yes,well.Thistimetheyreallyhadtheirhooksinus.Butit’sincrediblewhat

aboatlikeourscanstand!”TheCaptainnodsasifthesefewwordsareenoughtoexplaineverything.An

array of beer bottles is set up on the big table. It’s beer from Bremen, plusGermanwhiskey,FrenchMartell,SpanishCognac,Spanishredwine.There’saknockatthedoor.Whatnow?Twomenintrenchcoatsappear,they

takeofftheirfelthatsandglancerapidlyfromoneofustothenextasifthey’reafteracriminal.Enterthepolice?“HerrSeewald,representativeofthenavalattaché,”Ihear.Thesecondmanseemstobesomekindofagent.TheFirstWatchOfficerand

theChiefcomeinbehindthem.Thesaloonisfillingup.My heart is pounding.Anyminute nowwe’ll knowwhether the patrol has

cometoanendfortheChiefandme,orwhetheritwillleadontoGibraltar.Morechairsarebroughtin.TheOldManisalreadyleafingthroughthepapers

thatthetallerofthetwohashandedhimwithaformalbow.

There’ssilenceforafewmoments,apartfromtheshufflingofpapersandtherisingandfallinghowlofthewind.TheOldManraiseshiseyesoverthepacketofpapersandsays,“Turnedus

down,Chief.HighCommandhasturnedusdown!”Idon’tdareglanceattheChief.Myownmindisracing:ThismeansIdon’t

goeither.Wellthen,itjustwon’thappen;sobeit!It’sprobablyallforthebest.Iforceagrin.Afterall,theOldMancan’tleavetheboateither—nobodycan—andwithout

theChief,he’dbesunk.AmIafraid?TheOldManissuretowinout.Butthenthere’stheopposingargument:Thescowneedsanoverhaul.Allthatdamage—andrepairedwithnothingbutmaterialwehadonboard.Howcanthethingholdup?Howwillwemanage?Vigo;forthetimebeingwe’rerighthereinSpain.Aroundmidnight.Thefact

onlysinksinbydegrees.Ihavetoputupagoodfront.WouldIhavebeensohardhitifIhadn’tbeensosurethattheOldMan’splan

wouldreallyworkout?Naturally,I’dbeenbettingthatthepatrolwouldendinVigoforbothofus.Isimplydidn’twanttoadmitittomyself.Not having shown any enthusiasm for the Old Man’s plan right from the

beginning,IcanactasthoughI’dexpectednothingbutaturndownallalong.Noemotionalism. Refused—that’s okay with me. But the Chief! This is a bitterblow,hittinghimmuchharderthanithitsme.Inanycase,theOldManhastroubledigestingthenews.Thatmuchisclear.

He seemsgladwhen the twomen in trench coats present himwith somethingelse thatdemandshisattention,buthestill sits there thunderstruck.These twooilyhenchmen,readytobowandscrapeandrubtheirhands,turnthesceneintoa midnight horror play directed for the crudest effects. The contrasts are tooobvious,toogross:theWeser’sdignifiedCaptainandthesedrunkenvultures.Buthowdowelookourselves?IstareattheOldManasifIwereseeinghim

forthefirsttime.I,afterall,amstillmoreorlessdecentlydressedwithmysalt-encrustedleathertrousersandmyhalf-washedsweater,buttheOldManlooksasifhe’dbeenthrownoutofapoorhouseinthemiddleofthenight.Hisbeardisasshaggyashishair.Onboard,we’dallgotusedtohisrottingsweater,buthereinthe bright lights of this paneled room, even I am exasperated by this frayed,unraveledknittedrag.OnlytheVneckisstillintact.Totheright,overhisribs,

there’saholealmostasbigas theoneforhishead.Andhisrumpledshirt, theancientcap,hisscarecrow’strousers…ForthefirsttimeInoticehowpale,hollow-eyed,andemaciatedhelooks.The

Chief too.Hewouldn’tneedanymakeup job toplayMephistopheles.The lastfewdayshavereallywornhimout.Thisthirteenthpatrol,comingrightafterthetwelfthwithoutanyleave,wasalittlemuchforanexhaustedmanwhohasfarmoreresponsibilitiestobearthananyothermemberofthecrew.TheOldManisopenlyatpainstodemonstratehisrefusaltohaveanythingto

dowith the twocivilians.He’swearinghis sourpickleexpression,declines thecigarettestheyofferhim,andbarelyanswersthem.Ihearthat theWeserallowedherself tobe internedhereat thebeginningof

thewar.She’snowakindoffloatingsupplydepotthatisrestockedfromtimetotime with fuel oil and torpedoes. In absolute secrecy—there has to be strictregardforSpanishneutrality.Ican’tgetoverthesecret-agentfacesofthetwovultures.Thetalleriscrafty,

shy,his eyebrowsa single line; low forehead,pomadedhair,AdolpheMenjoumustache,muttonchopsextendingbelowhisearlobes.Muchwavingofhisarmsintheairsothathiscuffsshootoutandshowthegoldcufflinks,Theotheronehas close-set ears, a swarthy face, and a shifty air. The two of them stink ofundercover work a mile off, even if one calls himself a representative of thenaval attaché. Difficult, apparently, for a spy not to have a face that fits hisprofession.Ioverhearoddsnatchesandtailendsofdialogue.Tocrownitall,we’renot

even going to be allowed to leave mail. Too risky! It’s a secret operation…nothingmustbeallowedtoleakout.Wearen’tevensupposedtoknowexactlywhereVigois.Therewillbedreadfulworriesathome.Thepatrolhasalreadygoneonlonger

thaneverbeforeandgodknowshowmuchlongeritwillbebeforewecansendanymail.Howwill themenfeelwhenthey’retoldtheyhavetoholdontothelettersthey’vebeenwritingsobusilyduringthelastfewdays?And the ensign—howwill he be able to stand it? Iwish I’d never heard a

wordofhisRomeoandJulietstory.ButIcan’tjustgooverandcomforthim—treathimasifhe’sacallowromanticboy.Thechatterofthetwovulturesseemstoreachmethroughcottonwool.“One

more, just to cure ourselves of the habit,HerrKapitänleutnant!”—“Thatmust

havebeenaninterestingmission.HerrKapitänleutnant.”I’dbemissingmyguessabouttheOldManifheuttersanythingmorethana

mumbled“Yes.”Not even their direct questions about our boat’s successes can elicit any

responsefromtheOldMan.Hesimplynarrowshiseyesandglaresfromonetotheother,waitsforhissilencetounnervethem,andthensays,“Yes.”Icanseethathismindisworkingthewholetime,andIcanimaginewhat’s

botheringhim.Involuntarily,Iglanceathishands.He’sclenchedthemtogether,thewayhealwaysdoeswhenhefeelsuncomfortable.Thenhesignalsmewithanodofthehead.“Juststretchmylegsabit,”hesaystothecompany.Thesuddenchangefromthewarmthofthesaloontothecoldnightairtakes

mybreathaway.Ismelloil—ourprovisioning.TheOldManhurriestowardthesternwithsuchlongstridesthatI’mbarelyabletokeepup.Whenhecangonofarther,heturnsaroundabruptlyandleansagainsttherailing.Betweenthebowofalifeboatandtheblacksupportsofsomeironstructure,whosepurposeIcan’tmakeout,IseetheflickeringglowofVigo:yellowlights,whitelights,afewredones. Two sparkling necklaces run upward, gradually drawing together—thatmustbeastreetleadingupthehillfromtheharbor.At thepier liesadestroyer,all itsdecks litup.Floodlightsblazedownona

freighter.Youcanclearlyseethatherloadingcranesareatwork.Acircleofyellow light shinesup frombelowus—theopen torpedo supply

hatch.Thegalleyhatchisopentoo.Ihearvoices.“They’llneverbeanyusetomeagain,thesegoodclothes!”—“Oh,cuttherubbish—getgoing.Grabthat!”ThatwasunmistakablytheBerliner.SubduedsingingechoesfrombelowdecksintheWeser.I’mexcitedbythesparklinglights,therosy-redhalosaroundthestreetlamps

overthereontheshore.They’resurroundedbyanauraofsex.Ismellbed,thewarm milky smell of skin, the sweetish smell of powder, the anchovy-sharpsmellofcunt,EaudeJavel,sperm.Interruptedshouts,fragmentsofcommands,theloudbangingofmetal.“Whataracket,”saystheOldMan.The situation obviously disturbs him. “Those people on the fishing boat—

theymusthaveseenus,”hesaysfinally.“Andthemenontheship.Whoknows

whetherthey’reallreliable?Itwouldbeeasyenoughtoflashasignalfromhereto shore. In any case,we’re going to put to sea earlier.Not as arranged.Andwe’ll take the sameway out.Not the southern passage they recommended. Ifonlywehadmorewaterunderourkeelaroundhere…”Bluesparksflashontheshorelikeashortcircuit.Anothertrolley.Soundsof

chattering borne on the wind, then the honking of cars and the dull clankingfromotherships.Suddenlyadeepsilence.“Justwheredotheygetthetorpedoes?”IasktheOldMan.“Otherboatsdepositthemhere—theonesonreturnvoyagethatdidn’tuseup

theirwholequota.Theydropinhereonavisit,assuppliers,sotospeak.Returnvoyagesareveryusefulforthat.It’sthesameforanysuperfluousfueloilintheirtanks.”“Howwellhasitworkeduptoflow?Afterall,wearen’tthefirst.”“That’sjustit…Threeboatshavealreadybeensuppliedhere.Twowerelost.”“Where?”“That’swhat’snotclear.It’sperfectlypossiblethere’saTommydestroyeron

duty,waitingforusoffthesouthernentrance.Idon’tlikeanyofthis!”From below we can hear a kind of communal singsong. The First Watch

Officer should be here. Then by way of climax we get the melody of the“Internationale,”butwithnewwords:

Brothersoffreedomandsunlight!Buycondomscheapattheco-op!

InthepaleglowofthedistantfloodlightsIcanseetheOldMangrinning.Helistensawhilelonger,thengoeson.“They’renotnearlycarefulenougharoundhere!Thisishardlyareliableoperation!”Astabofmemory:IrealizethatsomewherebeforeI’veseenaboxofSpanish

matchesliketheoneslyinginthereonthetable.“ThoseSpanishmatches,”Isay.“Irecognizethem.”TheOldMandoesn’tseemtobelistening.Ibeginagain.“AboxofSpanish

matches like those, just like theoneson the table in the saloon, I’ve seenonebefore…”“Really?”hesays.

“Yes, in La Baule on the table in the Royal. It belonged toMerten’s FirstWatchOfficer.”“SoMertenhasalreadybeenhereonce—interesting!”“Theboxofmatchessuddenlyvanished.Butnooneadmittedtotakingit.”“Interesting,”saystheOldManagain.“Idon’tlikeitatall!”“Andthenaboxlikethatturnedupanothertime…”Butthisdoesn’tseemto

matter to the Old Man. It’s enough for him to know that our method ofprovisioninghasn’tremainedassecretasthegentlemensittingaroundthegreentable imagine. The boxes of matches—perhaps none of it is that important.Perhaps I’m only imagining things. But Spanish matches—you can’t helpnoticing—SpanishmatchesinFrance.I suddenly remember the ensign. Let’s hope Ullmann doesn’t try anything

silly.Betterhavealookandseewhereheis.IpretendthatIhavetotakealeakand climb over the tower down into the boat. How shabby it suddenly looksdownhere!I encounterUllmann in the control room.He’s helping to stow away fresh

bread.Thenetthathunglowinfrontoftheradioshackwhenweputoutisbeingfilledupagain.I’msuddenlyembarrassed,andcan’tthinkwhattosaytohim.“Well,Ullmann,”Imanage,andthenadd,“Aprettymess!”I’mnotoriouslyunsuitedtotheroleofcomforter.Theensignlookspathetic.

Howoftenmusthehave toldhimself in the last fewhours that there’snowaybackfromLaSpeziatoLaBaule?WhatIwouldreallyliketodoistakehimbytheshouldersandgivehimathoroughshaking.Insteadofwhich,Idowhathe’sdoing,andstareatthepatternofthefloorplates,onlyabletostammerout,“Thisisjust—thisisjustmiserable!”Theensignblowshisnose.Jesus,hehastopullhimselftogether.Ihaveanidea.“Ullmann,quick,fetchmeyourletter…Ordoyouwant to adda line to it?No,betterwrite it over again asofnowwithnogiveawaysinit—gotit?I’llseeyouintenminutesinthecontrolroom.”It’dberidiculous,Ithink,ifIcan’tpersuadetheCaptainoftheWeser…

TheOldMan is still brooding at the railing, and I stand silent beside him.Soon a squat shadow appears: the Captain of theWeser. The Old Man goes

through his customary trampling dance, and says, “I’ve never been to Spainbefore.”MythoughtsarewithUllmann.TheCaptainof theWeser is not a volubleman.He speaks in an agreeable,

cautiousfashion,hisdeepvoicetingedwithaNorthGermanaccent.“WehaveaFlettnerrudder—designedbythesameFlettnerwhoinventedtherotorship.Therotorswere a flop, but the rudder has been a great success.We can turn on acoin.Inanarrowharborthat’sabigadvantage.”Aqueerbird—givingusalectureonhisspecialrudderatamomentlikethis.AdullbumpingdisturbstheOldMan.TheFirstWatchOfficerturnsup.“Just

seewhetherthelinesandfendersareproperlycleared!”theOldManorders.Thewindisfresheningquiteperceptibly.“Would the Commander not like to take a bath?” asks the Captain of the

Weser.“Thankyou,no.”Amancomesuptoannouncethatthemealisservedinthesaloon“Let’senjoyit!”saystheOldMan,andmovesaftertheCaptain.Onceagainthechangefromdarknesstotheblindinglightofthesaloonmakes

mepauseforamoment.Thetwovulturesseemtohavegotthemselvesplastered.Their faces are flushed, their eyes no longer as alert as they were aroundmidnight.I steal aglanceatmywristwatch: two thirty. Ihave to sneakout againand

lookfor theensign.Heslipshis letter intomyhand, likeapickpocketpassingsomethingtohissidekick.Meantime the FirstWatch Officer and the Chief have relieved the Second

WatchOfficer and the assistant engineer. It’ll probably be five o’clock beforewe’rereadyfordeparture.IwishIcouldstretchoutandsleep,butIgobacktothesaloon.The two civilians are nowbeing hail-fellow-well-met. TheOldMan has to

permit the tallerof the twotoslaphimontheshoulderandbabble,“SiegHeilandfatbooty!”Ialmostsinkthroughthefloorinhumiliation.Fortunately, when the time comes, there’s a companionway instead of the

Jacob’sladderonthewayback.Everythinghasbeencarefulyblackedout,soI

manage to exchange a few words with the Captain of the Weser, therebydetaininghimsothatwelagsomewaybehindtheothers.Idon’tsaymuch.Hetakestheletterwithoutanyfuss.“I’llseetoit,”hesays.A gangway has been extended from a lower deck to our bridge.With one

handproppedontheTBTIletmyselfdropintothebridgecockpit.Therewellsup inmeakindofaffection for theboat,and I laybothhands flatagainst thedampmetalof thebulwark.Thesteel isvibrating: thedieselsarebeginning torun.Commandstocastoff.Shoutsfromabove.TheOldManseestoitthatwegetawayquickly.AlreadyIcanbarelymake

outthewavingfiguresontheWeser.Theportrunninglightofasteamerissuddenlyveryclose.TheOldMancalls

forthesignallight.Whatisheupto?He himself signals over, “Anton, Anton.” A hand-held searchlight flashes

backfromthesteamer.“B-u-e-n-v-I-a-j-e,”theOldManreadsout.Andthenhereplies,“G-r-a-c-I-a-s.”“Yes,Ihaveforeignlanguagestoo!”saystheOldMan.Andthen,“Theysaw

us—no doubt about it. Now perhaps they’ll assume we’re polite Tommies orsomethingofthesort.”Ourcourseisonehundredseventydegrees—almostduesouth.

TheprovisioninginVigohascheeredthemenup.“Went off prettywell—but they could have rounded up some dameswhile

theywereatit!”Ihearinthewardroom.“Aquickoneonthegangplank!”“Thoseguyswereabsolutelyshatteredbyus!TheOldManinthatsweaterof

his—itwasanactinitself!”TheconsternationthatreducedthemtosilenceaftertheGibraltarsignalseems

tohavevanished.Nowtheysoundas though they’dwanted theMediterraneanallalong,justtomakeachange.Frenssen claims to have had a brotherwhowas in the Foreign Legion.He

describes a desert landscapewith date palms and oases, fatamorganas, desert

fortresses, and luxuriously equippedwhorehouses “with a thousandwomen—andboystoo—somethingforeveryone!”Pilgrimstartsreminiscingtoo.“Ihadagirloncewhowascrazyaboutpantswithzippers.Couldn’tcontrol

herself,evenonthestreetcar.Keptgrindingherhipagainstmyfly,zippingitupanddown,upanddown…liketheguillotine—makesamannervous!”“Sowhatdidyoudo?”asksWichmann.“Do?Whatthehellcanyoudo?It’sliketheGrandOldDukeofYorkinthe

nurseryrhyme—’whenyou’reup,you’reup’…”“Well,easycome,easygo!”“You’rearealgorilla—noclassatall.”Wichmannsuddenlygetsdreamy.“Oneofthoserealleisurelyafternoonfucks

—abitofmusic—alittlesomethingtodrink—that’sstillthebest.Youandyourslam-bam-thank-you-ma’ams!”Memoriescometomind:lazylovemakingonrainyafternoons.Thedoorbell

rings, but we pay no attention. In another world—far from everyday reality.Curtains half drawn. Landlady out shopping. Only us and the cat in theapartment.Later Frenssen and Zeitler quietly andmatter of factly discuss the varying

meritsofcertainposturesduringintercourse.“Itcandriveyoucrazysometimes,”Frenssensays.“Ilaidadollontheheath

once… straight up a slope. Christ, was that a job—uphill, you know—butfinally, just as I was coming, I turned the lady around a hundred and eightydegrees.”Hemakesascoopingmotionwithbothhandstoillustratetheturn.Later there iswhispering back and forth between twobunks. “Howdoyou

feel?”“Howdoyou thinkI feel?Doesn’tmatteradamnwhere theysendus,does

it?”“Comeon,admitit!DoyouthinkIdon’tknowwhyyou’vebeensodownin

themouth?But, that’salloverwithnow!Don’tworryabout it.Your littlegirlwillbetakencareof.Afterall,she’saverypresentabledoll,somethinglikethatdoesn’tgetdusty…”

Thenextdayathoughtfulatmosphereprevailsinthepettyofficers’quarters,afewswaggeringspeechesbyZeitlerandFrenssennotwithstanding.Nochitchatfrombunktobunk.It’snotgoingtobechild’splay—everyonehasrealizedthatbynow.At themiddaymeal theOldManbegins to talkabout thewayheplansour

passagepastGibraltar—hesitantly, tryingour patience as usual; anyonewouldthink he was putting his thoughts together for the first time like pieces of ajigsaw puzzle—that he hadn’t spent hour after hour concocting his plan,weighingtherisks,thendiscardingthewholeproject,recombiningtheelements,weighingtheadvantagesanddisadvantages.“We’lluse thenighttimeapproach—onthesurface.Ascloseaswepossibly

can.It’llbearealobstaclerace.”Obstacleslikedestroyersandotherpatrols,Iaddsilently.“Thenwe’llsimplydiveandletourselvessinkourwaypast.”I don’t dare exposemy curiositywith somuch as a glance, so I pretend to

understand: perfectly clear—let ourselves sink our way past. That’s the lateststyle.The Old Man simply continues to stare straight ahead. He pretends to be

thinkingandsaysnomore,asifhe’dexplainedhimselffully.Sink!Notexactlyanattractiveexpression.Makesforafeelinginthepitofthe

stomachlikeafallingelevator.ButiftheDelphicoraclewantsitthatway,that’swhatwe’lldo:sink!TheSecondWatchOfficerdoesn’thaveasgoodacontroloverhisfaceasI

do. He seems to have a nervous tic in his eye—itmakes him look as if he’sasking questions with his eyelashes—a new, unobtrusive way of gatheringinformation.But the Old Man simply leans his head back in his barber-chair posture.

Finally, after twoor threeminutes, he directs a few explanations to the finelygrainedplywoodontheceiling.“Yousee,therearetwocurrentsintheStraitofGibraltar: a surface current from the Atlantic into the Mediterranean and adeeperone that flows in theoppositedirection.Andthere’squiteabitofpushbehindthem.”

Hethrustsouthislowerlipandsucksinhischeeks,thenlooksdownandjustsitsthereinsilenceagain.“Seven-knot current,” he finally tosses in, like a tidbit for us to chew on a

while.ThenIsee the light.Sink—this timehemeanshorizontally,not in theusual

upanddownsense.Perfectlyobvious—andbrilliant!Nothing simpler:Dive, and let yourself be carried through the strait by the

current—nonoise,anditsavesfuel.Therulesofthegamedemandthatweappearbored.Noastonishment.Don’t

nod; don’tmove an eyelash.TheOldMan thrusts out his lower lip again andnodsdeliberately.TheChiefallowshimselfasortoflopsidedgrin.TheOldManregistersthis,takesadeepbreath,returnstohisbarber-chairposture,andasksinunexpectedlyofficialtones,“Well,Chief,everythingclear?”“Jawohl,HerrKaleun,”theChiefreplies,noddingvigorously,asifsheerzeal

mightkeephimatitforever.There’s a tense pause. What the Old Man needs now is an opponent, a

doubter. The Chief gladly obliges. Admittedly, all he says is, “Hm, hm,” butthat’s enough to indicate certain reservations. Although all of us—except theCommander—arenowstaringexpectantlyattheChief,hesimplycockshisheadonone side like ablackbird searching fornightcrawlers in the short grass.Hewouldn’tthinkofvoicinghisdoubts—he’sjustallowingthemtoflickerthrough.That’senoughtobeginwith.He’sanoldhand—hetakeshistime,hedallies—somethinghelearnedfromtheOldMan.Ourcompanydevotesagoodfiveminutestothissilentgame.FinallytheOld

Manseemstohavehadenough.“Well,Chief?”hesaysencouragingly.ButtheChief’sholdingupremarkablywell.Heshakeshisheadverygentlyanddelivershisdrycurtainline.“Absolutelyfirstrate,HerrKaleun!Inspiredidea.”I’m amazed at this cold-blooded bastard!And to think that Iwas afraid he

wasclosetoanervousbreakdownduringthelastattack.On the other hand, the Old Man’s doing well too, He betrays no visible

reactionwhatever;hesimplylowershisheadandobserveshisChiefoutofthecornerofhiseye,asthoughhehadtocheckonapatient’sstateofmindwithoutthepatientnoticingit.Araisingofthelefteyebrowexpresseshisconcernabouttheinvalid:puredrawing-roomcomedy.

The Chief pretends to be unaware of the Commander’s psychiatricexamination.Withsuperblymimedindifferenceheraiseshisrightleg,claspshishands under his knee and looks absolutely blankwhile casually observing theveinsinthewoodwork.Justasthesilencethreatenstobecomeoppressive,thestewardappears.Even

theextrasareingoodformtoday,providingtheactionwhenit’stimetoputanendtothedumbshow.Thesoupmakesitsrounds.Wespoonit,chew,andaresilent.OnceagainInoticethefly.She’swalkingacrossthephotographoftheC-in-

C. Right into hiswide-openmouth. Too bad it’s not happening in real life: ablack fly the size of a small dumpling straight down his throat—right at theclimaxofoneofhisstemwindingspeeches.“Attack—onwardandup…ugh—”TheflytakeswingandtheC-in-Cuttersonlythefirstsyllablebeforehechokes.Our fly didn’t disembark in Vigo: she resisted all temptations to become aSpanish fly.Spanish flies—thereare such things!Shestayedonboard,provedherloyaltyNoonedeserted.We’reallstillaboard,allpresentandaccountedfor,our fly included. At the same time she’s probably the only creature that cancomeandgoasshepleases.NotboundbytheC-in-C’sordersthewayweare.Anexampleofspectacularloyalty.Throughthickandthin.Verycommendable.Upinthebow,akindofoperaeveningseemstobeinprogress.Throughthe

closedhatchcomescrapsofsong.Whenthehatchclicksopen,thereisrousingnoisefromthecompartment:

HerecomesthesheikHe'sonthemake.

Thisisrepeatedadinfinitum.JustasI’vegivenupallhopeoftextualchange,someofthemgettogetheronthenextverse:

Throughthewide,widewastesoftheSaharaTherewandersasex-crazycrone,AlongcomesafilthyoldBedouinFirstshescreams,thenheroars,thentheymoan.

“It’sArabianweek!Probablysomethingtodowiththefactthatwe’reheadedsouth,”saystheOldMan.“They’resingingtopluckuptheircourage.”

BecausetheOldManseemstohavesomefreetimeafterbreakfast,Iaskhimfor someexplanations. “This strongcurrent flowing into theMediterranean—Idon’tunderstandit.Wheredoesallthewatercomefrom?”Ihavetomakeupmymind tobepatient.TheOldMan isneverquickoff themark.Firsthe tiltshisheadtoonesideandfrowns—Icanseethesentencestakingshape.“Well…yes…therearequiteremarkableconditionsthere.”Pause.NowtherulesrequirethatIfixmyeyesonhisfacetokeephisremarks

staggeringon.“YoualreadyknowthattheMediterraneannotonlyhasacurrentthatflowsin

but also one that flows out. Two of them, one above the other: upper one in,loweroneout.Thereasonisthatthere’spracticallynorainfallanywhereinthearea.There’sendlesssunshine,though—soalotofwaterevaporates.Andasthesaltobviouslydoesn’tevaporatealongwiththewater,thesaltcontentincreases.Thesaltierthewater,theheavieritis.Allclearandlogical,isn’tit?”“Sofar—yes.”The OldMan hangs fire. Dragging on his cold pipe, he behaves as if the

whole theoremwerenowresolved—QED.Onlywhen I start toget tomyfeetdoes he go on. “The salt solution sinks; it forms the deep water of theMediterranean and, with its tendency to seek even greater depth, flows outthroughthestraitintotheAtlanticandsettlesataboutthreethousandfeet,whereit has the same specific gravity as the surrounding water. Meanwhileequalization is taking place up above. Less salty water is flowing from theAtlanticintotheMediterranean,replacingthewaterlostthroughevaporation.”“…andthedeepwaterthathasflowedout.”“Exactly!”“Andwhatweintendtodoistoprofitbythissensiblearrangement—I.e.,to

slipinwiththelesssaltyreplacementwater?”“It’stheonlyway…”

OntheCommander’sordersI’mstandingwatchasanadditionallookout.“Tricky,beingthisclosetoland!”

In less than half an hour the port lookout aft roars: “Aircraft at seventydegrees!”TheSecondWatchOfficerwhirlsaroundtostareinthesamedirectionasthe

outstretchedarmofthelookout.I’m already at the tower hatch. As I drop through, I hear the alarm,

immediatelyfollowedbytheshrillingofthebell.TheChiefcomesthroughtheforwardhatchinasinglebound.Theemergencyairexhaustsareopened,theredandwhitehandwheelsspun.Fromabove,thevoiceoftheSecondWatchOfficer:“Flood!”Slowly, as if in the teeth of fierce resistance, the needle of the depth

manometerbeginstomove.“Allhandsforward!”orders theChief.Fallingrather thanrunning, thecrew

stormsthroughthecontrolroomtowardthebow.TheCommanderissittinghunchedoverthechartchest.Icanseenothingbut

his bent back. He’s the first to move again: He gets up and, like an angrydirector,makesagestureofdismissalwithhislefthandwhilehepusheshisrightdeep into his trouser pocket. “Nothing! Stay underwater for the time being!”And,totheSecondWatchOfficer,“Goodwork,SecondWatch!”He turns to me. “Good start!We’re beginning just fine!We’ll make great

progressifitgoesonlikethis.”There’sjustenoughroomformeatthecharttableforonce.Igetagoodview

oftheGibraltarchart.FromtheAfricancoasttotheBritishdocksisaboutsevenmiles.These docks are the only ones atwhich theBritishMediterranean fleetcanput in for repairs, theonlyones thatdamagedcommercialvesselshave attheirdisposal.TheBritishwilldoeverythingtoprotectthesefacilities.Onlysevenmilesfromcoasttocoast—anarrowcorridor,butwehavetoslink

throughit.ThePillarsofHercules: in thenorth theRockofGibraltar, theMountainof

Saturn;inthesouth,onthecoastofSpanishMorocco,theRockofAvilaclosetoCeuta.Wewillprobablyhavetostickclosetothesouthcoast,stealourwayinalong

thewall,sotospeak.But would that really be a good idea? The Tommies can figure out for

themselves that a German U-boat would hardly sail straight through their

wartimeharbor;they’lltakemeasurestoprotecttheothersideaccordingly.TheOldMan, of course,must havemade his plan long ago. I’m curious to knowwhatcoursehe’sworkedout.TheSecondWatchOfficerappearsandbendsoverthecharttablebesideme.“Theenchantedmeetingplaceoftwoseductiveclimates,wherethemildness

and beauty of the Mediterranean world encounter the strength and sheerimmensityoftheAtlantic!”Ilookathiminamazement.“That’swhat it says in theseamanual!”hesays indifferently,ashegoes to

workwiththeprotractor.“Sevenmiles—well,we’llhaveroom!”“Depth?”Iask.“Uptothirty-twohundredfeet.That’splenty!”TheChiefjoinsus.“OnceapackofusattackedaGibraltarconvoy.Theonesthatwereleftmust

have felt pretty good when they finally saw the Rock. There were twenty ofthemwhen the freighters put to sea.And afterwe’d finished, therewere onlyeightleft.Itwassomewherearoundhere—perhapsalittletothewest.”The lighthouses I find on the chart have foreign names.One is calledZem

Zem.Then there’sCapeSaintVincent.Whatwas that aboutNelson andCapeSaintVincent?

Anhourlaterwesurfaceagain.TheFirstWatchOfficerhashardlymountedhiswatchwhenthealarmbelljoltsmeoncemore.“Suddenly came fromway up—don’t knowwhat type!” Zeitler blurts out,

breathinghard.“They must have spotted us,” the Commander remarks. “We’ll stay

underwaterawhile.”Hedoesn’tleavethecontrolroomagain,andhe’svisiblyuneasy.Themoment

hesquatsonthechartchest,heseemsimpelledtogetupagain.He’slookinghismostmorose.“Probablyit’sallpartoftheouterdefenses.”

Anotherhalfhourgoesby,thentheOldManclimbsintothetowerandordersustosurface.Theengineshavebeenrunningabaretenminuteswhenthealarmbellshrieks

again.Itsuglytonenolongerpiercesmetotheverymarrowbutitstillgivesmeaviolentstart.“Ifitgoesonlikethis,we’llbestuckherethewholedaygoingupanddown!”TheOldMancontinuestopretendindifference,butheknowsthedifficulties.

Conditionsareaboutasunfavorableas theycouldpossiblybe.After that longperiodofbadweather,there’sbarelysomuchasarippletodisturbthesurfaceofthesea.Whichmeansthataircraftwillhavenotroublefindingus,evenwithoutamoon.The British may not be able to close the strait with underwater nets, but

they’llbeputtingineverytubthey’vegotthatfloats.They’veprobablyknownfor some timewhat ourCommandhas inmind.Their secret service, after all,works.Lettingourselvesdriftthroughthenarrowssoundsperfectlyplausible,butits

onlyadvantageisthattheenemycan’tactuallyhearus.ItgivesusnoprotectionagainstAsdic.

Iwitness thecontrol-roommategettingouthisescapegearfrombehindhisbunk.He’svisiblyupsetthatI’veseenhim,and,lookingindignant,immediatelythrows the gear down on top of his bunk. As if it had got into his hands bymistake!Pilgrimcomesthrough,tryingtousehisbodytoconcealwhathe’scarrying.I

can hardly believe my own eyes. More escape gear. Funny how differentlypeoplereact.Forwardinthebowcompartment,the“lords”areactingasthoughnothingspecialwereafoot,andheretheescapegearisbeingdugout.I notice that the bananas we strung up across the control room are getting

yellow.ThepeopleoverinLaSpeziawouldbedelighted.Andallthatredwinethecrewof theWeserput aboard!TheOldMan sworeablue streakwhenhediscovered thebottles.Buthedidn’thave theheart toorder them thrownovertheside.

Idecidetotakeaquicklookatthingstopside.I’vehardlystuckmyheadoutwhenafishingboatemergesfromalowfogbank.“Damnclose.Musthaveseenus!”Thisisanactwe’veallsatthroughbefore.TheOldMansnorts.Silence forawhile.Thenhestarts theorizing:“Has to

havebeenaSpaniard.”Let’shopeso,Isaytomyself.“Well,anyway,there’snothingwecandoaboutit!”ThePortuguesecoast loomsup.Over thereddishrocksIseeawhitehouse.

Looks like Brittany, like the Côte Sauvage at Le Croisic, where a storm canmake the surf explode like shells from the big guns. First a couple of hollowbooms, immediatelyfollowedbygeysersshootingupbetweentheblackrocks.Whentheseaiscalmandthetideisout,tinyyellowbeachesstretchbetweenthecliffs.Pale-yellowrustlingsedgeinthedampbays.Pricklygorsegarlandedandfestoonedwithspindriftwhenthenorthwestwindragesagainstthecoast.Deep-worn roads buried in foam like snow.Pale silver stars of thistles on the sand.Sometimes,too,acast-upparavanelostfromaminesweeper.Hightwo-wheeledcartsthefarmersusetogatherhalf-driedseaweedtogetherintogreatpiles.AndtoseawardthelighthousepaintedredandwhitelikeourPapenberg.AndnowtheboxofSpanishmatchesis inmymindagain.Iknewitall the

time,ofcourse,withoutbeingwillingtoadmitittomyself:Thesameboxwiththe blazing sun on it—bright yellow on hot red—Simone kept one in thecrocodilehandbagshealwayscarriedaroundwithhertohold“mavieprivée,”asshecalledit.Onceshewasrummagingaroundinitforaphotoshewantedtoshowmeandoutfellthematchbox.Shesnatcheditupagainmuchtooquickly.Whyshouldn’tIseeit?TheFirstWatchOfficerfromFranke’sboat,whooftencameintoherparents’café,hadgivenittoher—no,leftitbehind—no,shehadbeggeditfromhim…suspicionflaresagain.SimoneandtheMaquis!Wasshedisloyalafterall—despiteallherassurances?Herconstantquestioning:“Quandest-ce que vous partez?—vers quelle heure?”—“ Oh, ask your friends. Theyknow our timetable better thanwe do!”—And then the outbursts of tears, thepatheticwhimpers, thesuddenrage.“Mean,mean—tuesméchant—méchant—méchant!”Smearedmakeup,sniffling.Thepictureofmisery.Butwhydidn’tshegetoneofthoseprettylittleblack-lacqueredtoycoffinsin

themailthewayherfriendsinthehousedid?WhywasSimonetheonlyperson

nottogetone?Hersorrowfulface—allpretense?Noonecanputonasgoodashowasthat.Orcanthey?Iseethewidelowbed,theloudrosepatternonthecover,thetwistedfringes,

smell Simone’s fragrant dry skin. Simone never perspires.How she loves herdelicatetautbody,howawaresheisofhereverymovement.Isitinthemiddleofthecafénotdaringtomeetherglance.Butwhenshe’s

movingbackandforthbetweenthetableswiththeagilityofaweasel, lookingafterhercustomers,Ifollowherwithmyeyes.Lightandgracefulasamatadorinthering.Thelayoutofthechairsdeterminesherfiguresandpasses,giveshertheopportunityforconstantlynewvariations.Sheavoidstheseobstaclesasshewould the horns of a bull, swaying her hips to one side or drawing in herstomachalittle.Shehandlesherwhiteservingnapkinlikeacape.Inoticethatsheneverbumpsintoanything,neversomuchastouchesthecornerorthebackofaseat.Andherlaughter!Tossedoutlikesparklingcoins.Againandagaintheviolet of her sweater flits into view. In vain I try to keep my eyes on thenewspaper. Who suggested to her this sophisticated combination of violetsweaterandgrayslacks—thisquiteremarkableviolet,neitherreddishnorbluish—likeapaintingbyBraque?Andontopof it, theochrebrownofherfaceandtheblacknessofherhair.A lot of guests in the inn now. They come in thirsty from the beach. The

waitress can’t keep up. It’s fun to see howSimone catches upwith her at thedesk between trips and reproves her, unobtrusively, like a silently threateningcat.I can still hear her voice. “We have to be careful!”—“Ach, always being

careful!”—“Youmust beware; and somust I!”—“Whocan stopus?”—“Don’tbestupid.There’ssomuchtheycandowithout‘stopping’us!”—“Butnoneofitmatters!”—“Yes, but we want to survive!”—“Ach, no one’s going tosurvive!”—“Weare.”ShemeetsmeatthetraininSavenay,hasacarfromgodknowswhere,won’t

letmesayawordbecausesheknows I’ll start swearing,drives likeamaniac,asks, “Are you afraid? If amilitary policeman shows up, I’ll step on the gas.Theycannevershootstraight!”Ihearheronthemorningbeforeweputtosea.“Situneturnoverrightnow

andgetup—jetepoussedehorsavecmoncul—withmyass,compris?”With a lighted cigarette she singes the hair on the calf ofmy right leg. “It

smells sonice,ofa littlecochon!”She reaches for a fur-trimmedbelt, clamps

theendof itunderhernosewithhercurledupper lip to resembleamustache,looks in themirror,andburstsout laughing.Thenshepluckssomewool fromthefringesofthebedcoverandstuffsitintohernoseandears.AndnowshetriesGerman. “I am ready for misleading—I am noxious—je suis d’accord—I amveryhappyforit—withit—overit—howdoyousaythat?Icouldbecomeanicelittle cannibal—j’ai envie d’être seduced.Et toi? And now I’m going to singsomethingforyou:

MonsieurdeChevreuseayantdeclaréquetouslescocusdevraientêtrenoyés,MadamedeChevreuseluiafaitdemanders'ilétaitbiensurdesavoirnager!"*

[*"MonsieurdeChevreuse,havingdeclaredthatallcuckoldsoughttobedrowned,MadamedeChevreuseputthequestiontohimastowhetherhewasperfectlysureheknewhowtoswim!"]

Allplay-acting?Puredeception?TheMataHariofLaBaule?And again, themorningwe left. Simone crouchingmotionless at the table,

shoulders hunched, staring at me: eyes swimming, mouth filled with half-chewedroll,butter,andhoney.“Goaheadandeat!”Obedientlyshebeginstochew.Tearspourdownhercheeks.Onehangsfrom

hernose.It’scloudy.Inoticethatespecially.Probablythesalt.Salttears.“Noweat.Begood!”Itakeherbythebackofthenecklikearabbit,pushingherhairup with the back of my hand. “Come on now, eat, for heaven’s sake. Stopworrying!”Theheavy sweater—thankgod for thewhite sweaterwith its cable pattern.

Givesmesomethingtotalkabout.“Luckyyoufinishedthesweater.I’llbeabletomakegooduseofit.It’sreallycoldoutsidethesedays!”Shesniffles.“It’sfantastic—thewool—absolutelytheexactamount.Onlyone

little piece left over.” She showsme howmuch by spreading her thumb andindex finger. “Not even four sous’worth!What doyou say to sweaters in the

Navy?Something like happy?Or faithful?Are youhappywith your sweater?Willyoubefaithfultoit?”She sniffles again, holds her breath, laughs through her tears. Brave. She’s

wellawarethatit’snotgoingtobeanypicnic.Youcan’tfeedhertallstoriesthewayyoucantothewomenathome.Shealwaysknowswhenaboatismissing.But how? By accident? The evidence? There are, after all, a hundred“legitimately”possiblewaysoffindingout.“Lords”whoonceusedtoberegularcustomers all of a sudden don’t turn up anymore. And of course the Frenchcleaningwomen in the billets knowwhen a crew has gone to sea andwhen,according to all expectations, they should be back.There is far toomuch talkeverywhere.Andyet,andyet…TheoldBretonclockshowssix thirty.But it’s tenminutes fast.A reprieve.

Thedriverwillbehereintenminutes.Simonegoestoworkonmyjacket.“Youhaveaspothere,cochon!”ShecannotgraspthatI’mgoingaboarddressedthisway.“Whatd’youthinkitis?Apleasureboat?”I have stored up everyword. “I comewith you to the channel!” “No, you

mustn’tdothat.Besides,it’scordonedoff!”—“I’llgetthroughjustthesame,I’llborrowanurse’spass.Iwanttoseeyourunout!”—“Pleasedon’t.Itcouldcausetrouble.Youknowwhenwe’releaving.Youcanseeusfromthebeachhalfanhourlater.”—“Butyou’llbenomorethanamatchstick!”Againtheword“match.”Theredandyellowbox.Istrainmymemory,seize

holdofsomething:thebridgetablewiththebrowncigaretteholesburnedinthelightplumwoodveneer.It’seasytorecallthetrompe-l’oeilpatternofthetilesonthe floor, which eithermake clearly defined cubes placed on end or negativegeometricindentations,dependingonwhetheryoulookatawhiteorablacktilefirst…Thegrayashes in thehearth…Outside thesquealingofbrakes.Thenahorn.Thedriverinfieldgray—navalartillery.Simone runs the flat of herhandsover thenew sweater.Shehuddlesup so

smallagainstmethatshedoesn’tevenreachmychin.Also,I’mwearingmybigseaboots.“Whydoyouhavesuchbigboots?”“Theyhavecorksolesandare linedandbesides…”Ihesitateforamoment

butherlaughterandheramazementencouragemetogoon.“Besides,theyhavetobebigenough to letyoukick themoff in thewaterwithoutany trouble.” I

quickly clasp her head and runmy fingers through her hair. “Well now, don’tmakeascene!”—“Yourbag?Whereisyourbag?HaveyounoticedallthethingsIpackedintoit?Theparcel issomethingyoumustn’topenuntilyou’reatsea,ja? Promise!”—“I promise!”—“And you’llwear your sweater, too?”—“Everyday,wheneverwe’reoutside.’AndwhenIgotosleepI’llpullthecollarupandfeelathome!”I’mthankfuleverythingissodowntoearth.“D’youneedhandtowels?”—“No,theyhavethemonboard.Andleavehalf

ofthatsoapout.Theyhavesaltwatersoaponboard.”I look at the clock.The carhasbeen standingoutside for fiveminutes.We

stillhavetopickuptheChief.Ifonlyitwereallover!…Itendsveryfast.Thegardengateathiplevel,theturpentinesmellofpinetrees.Turnaroundonemoretime.Slamthegate.Over—fini!

Nightisfallingquickly.Thelastlightfromtheskyshimmersandfadesinourwake.“Well, Kriechbaum, what sort of feeling d’you have about this?” the

Commanderasksthenavigator.“Good!”hesayswithouthesitation.Butdidn’thisvoicesoundforced?Another half hour—then the Commander sends me below, along with the

three lookouts. He wants no one but the navigator up there. That must meanwe’realreadyveryclosetowhereheassumestheringofdefensesare.I hear the electricmotors being put into gear. The pounding of the diesels

stops; now we’re running on the surface with our motors, something we’veneverdonebefore.“Ship’stime?”theCommandercallsdown.“20.30hours,”thehelmsmancallsback.Iremaininthecontrolroom.Ahalfhourpasses.Themotorsrunwithsolittle

noisethatallIhavetodoisstandunderthetower,andIcanheareverythingtheCommandersays.“Goodgod—theTommies’veactuallycalleduphalfthefleet!Theycan’tall

begoingtothecasinoinTangier!Watchthatoneoverthere,Kriechbaum.Let’shopewedon’trunanyoneover.”

TheChiefappearsbesideme,alsoglancingupward.“Damneddifficult!”hesays.Goingbynothingbut theirnavigation lights, theOldManhas to figureout

thecourseand speedof theenemyships,presentournarrowsilhouette toonepatrolingvesselafteranotherandtrytooutmaneuverthem.Damnhardtoknowatoncewhich lightbelongs towhichship,whether thescowhasstoppedor isgoingawayatanangleofahundredtendegrees—orperhapscomingtowardusatseventy.Nor can the helmsman relax for an instant. He makes his return report in

hushed tones. But the OldMan’s voice has relaxed. I know him: He’s in hiselementnow.“Suchadecentbunchofpeople;they’vesettheirnavigationlightsproperly—

niceofthem!Kriechbaum,what’syourlittletubdoing?Gettingcloser?”Theboatseemstobegoingroundincircles.Imustpaymoreattentiontothe

orderstothehelmsman.“Shit!Thatwasacloseone!”TheCommanderissilentforawhile.Stickywork.Apulsebeatshighinmy

throat.“That’sright,myboy,justrunalongthatway!”Ihearatlast.“Whatamob!

But they’re doing the best they can!Whoops, who’s that coming over there?Steerninetydegreestoport.”I’dgivealottobeonthebridgenow.“Navigator, keep your eye on that vessel headed across our bow—yes, that

oneovertherel—reportifshechangescourse!”Suddenlyheordersbothmotorsstopped.Istrainmyears.TheChiefsnorts.

Whatnow?Theslappingofthewavesagainstthebuoyancytankssoundsmuchtooloud.

Likewetwashcloths.Theboatrocksbackandforth.Myquestioningglanceatthe Chief remains unanswered. All the lights in the control room have beenshaded,soIcanonlyseehisfaceasapaleslab.Ihearhimshifthisweighttwiceinsheerexcitement.Tschjumm—tschjumm:thewavesslapagainsttheside.Relief:theOldManfinallyhastheportmotorstarted.Foragoodtenminutes

wemakeverylittleheadway;weseemtobesneakingalongontiptoe.

“We’d have caught that one!” comes from above. The Chief lets out hisbreath.TheOldManordersthestarboardmotorstartedtoo.Havewealreadywormed

ourwaythroughtheheavyouterdefenses?AndwhatiftheTommieshavesetupawhole series of systems, not just one? “They can hardly have set up boomblockades,”saystheOldMan.“Fartoomuchcurrent.”Whereareweanyway?Aglanceatthechart?No,notnow.Notimeforit.“Well,Kriechbaum,exciting,isn’tit?”TheOldManistalkingloudlyupthere,totallyunconcerned.“Steadyasweare!What’sourinterloperdoingnow?”Unfortunately,Icanbarelyhearthenavigator.Tensionmusthaveconstricted

hisbreathing;heanswersinawhisper.TheOldManchangescourseyetagain.“Justalittlecloser!It’sworkingout

allright.Theyprobablyaren’treckoningonusturningup!Besurethescowovertherestayswellclearofus—okay?”For a good five minutes there’s nothing from above but two orders to the

helmsman.Then:“Intenminuteswedive!”“Allrightwithme,”murmurstheChief.Forthetimebeing,however,despitetheOldMan’sannouncement,theChief

stays put. Is he trying to demonstrate how sure of himself he is? There’s noquestionaboutit:theboathasbeenperfectlytrimmed.Allthesystemsthatarehis responsibility have been carefully tested during the last few hours. Thecontrol-roommatehasn’thadanyrestatall.“…well,whosays…that’stheway…nowbehaveyourselves…”TheOldMansoundsasifhe’stalkingtoachildwhowon’tfinishhisfood.“Well,we’lljusttakealook!”saystheChiefatlastanddisappears.Ihavea sudden thought:Quick!Get to thecan!Opportunitiesmaybecome

rare.I’minluck—stateroomHisfree.Inthecanit’slikesquattinginsideamachine.There’snowoodworkinhereto

conceal themind-boggling tangle of pipes.You can barelymove between thenarrowwalls.Andtomakethingsevenmoredifficult, thebosunhascrammed

cannedgoods from theWeser into every inchof spacebetween themops andpails.While I’m exertingmyself, I remember the description of a seaman in the

latrine of a damaged vessel during a storm, whose job was to keep slowlypouringoil:Thisoilwouldflowoutthroughthedrainandsupposedlycalmthesurface of the waves. The steamer was listing heavily, so the latrine lay justabout at the water line.Whenever the ship heeled too far over, water rushedthrough the drain into the latrine andkept on rising.Thedoorwouldn’t open,becauseaboltontheoutsidehadslidshut,andtheseamanknewthathewoulddrown if the ship rolled any farther.He couldn’t even hope that airwould betrappedneartheceilingandresistthewaterpressure,forlatrinesaretraditionallywellventilated—normalships’latrines,thatis,notaU-boat’s.So therehewas, caught likeamouse ina trap, andhewentonpouringoil

whenever the drainpipe stopped spouting sea water: a lonely man on anabandonedpostfightingforhisship.InstantlyI’mseizedbythemosthumiliatingclaustrophobia.Wemighthavea

divingaccident.Thebatteriesmightexplode,andthisdamnedheavyironcatchneveropenagain—bentby theexplosion. I seemyselfbangingon thedoor indespair:noonetohearme.Scenes from movies flash through my mind: a car hurtling into a river,

trappingitspassengers.Agonizedfacesbehindthebarsofaburningpenitentiary.Atheatergangwayjammedwithpanic-strickenmobs.Mybowelsseizeup;Igettomyfeetandtrytoconcentrateonthedripsofcondensationhangingfromthelower edge of a gleaming silver potash cartridge that’s stored in a containerbehindthetoilet.I pretend to be calmandpull upmy trouserswith deliberate slowness.But

then my hands begin to work faster than I want them to, pumping the toiletempty.Getthedooropenfast!Getout!Breathedeep!Jesus!Fear?Was that just fear, common, ordinary fear, or was it claustrophobia?

WhenhaveIexperiencedrealfear?Intheairraidshelter?Notreally.Afterall,therewasnoquestionbutthatwe’dbedugouteventually.OnceinBrest—whenthebomberssuddenlycame—Iranlikearabbit.Itwasquiteaperformance.Butgenuinefear?InDieppe, on themine sweeper?That crazy rise and fall of the tide.We’d

alreadypickeduponemine;whenthealarmsuddenlywentoff,thewallofthe

pierwas as high as a four-story house, andwewere lying in themud on thebottomoftheharborbasin,withthebombsbeginningtofallandnowheretogo.But all of that was nothing compared to my fear in the endless echoing

corridors of the boarding school on Sundays, when most of the students hadgonehome—hardlyanyoneinthehugebuilding.Peoplechasingme,knivesintheir hands, fingers curling to seize me by the neck from behind. Pursuingfootstepspoundingaftermeinthecorridor.Horrorbehindmyback—unceasingfear. The torment of school: In themiddle of the night I’d start up out ofmysleep,stickybetweenmythighs,positiveImustbebleedingtodeath.Nolight.ThereI’dlie,rigidwithterror,paralyzedbythefearthatI’dbemurderedifIsomuchasmoved.

XGIBRALTAR

Changeover. There’s a lot of pushing and shoving because men from thesecondwatchare still standingaround in thecontrol room,while thoseon thethird are beginning to turn up. The Berliner can’t understand why we stillhaven’tdived.“WiththeOldManit’sallornothing.Nohalfmeasures!”Tensionhasloosenedtheirtongues.Threeorfourofthemaretalkingatonce.

“Boy,that’squiteanidea!”—“It’sreallyworkingout!”—“Howarethingsintheshop?”—“We’remakingout.”Zeitlerrunshiscombthroughhishair.“That’sit—fixyourselfup,”saystheBerliner.“TheysayalotoftheTommies

arequeer.”Zeitlerpaysnoattention.Turbosingssoftlytohimself.Istandunderthehatchway,sou’westerfastenedundermychin,righthandon

theladder,lookingup.“Permissiontocomeonthebridge?”ButtheCommanderroars,“ALARM!”Thenavigatorcomesslidingdowntheladder.Hisseabootslandclosebeside

mewithabang.Uproarfromabove.TheCommander—whereintheworldistheCommander?I’m about to openmymouthwhen a dreadful explosion catchesme in the

knees. God,my eardrums! I stagger against the chart chest. Someone shouts,“The Commander! The Commander!” And someone else, “We’ve been hit!Artilleryshell!”Aheavycascadedescendsonus.Nomorelight.Earsdeafened.Fear.Theboathasalreadystartedtotilt.ThentheCommanderlandssmackinthe

middle of us like a heavy sack.Groaningwith pain, all hemanages to say is,“Hit,rightbesidethetower!”InthebeamofaflashlightIseehimbentoverbackward,hishandspressed

againsthiskidneys.

“Cannon’sgone!—Almostblewmeout!”Somewhereinthedarknessintheafterhalfofthecontrolroom,someoneis

screamingshrilly—likeawoman.“Itwasabee—directattack,”theCommandergasps.Ifeeltheboatsinkingfast.Abee?Abee?Inthemiddleofthenight?Notan

artilleryshellbutaplane—impossible!Anemergencylightgoeson.“Blow the tanks!” roars the Commander. “Blow them all!” And then in a

whiplashvoice,“Surfaceatonce!Breakoutlife-savinggear!”I stopbreathing.Two, three terrified faces in thehalfdarknessof the after-

hatchframe.Allmovementceases,TheCommandergroans,panting.In the same hour came forth fingers of a man’s hand, and wrote upon the

plasterofthewalloftheking’spalace…Abee—that’simpossible!Bowheavy?Muchtoobowheavy?Cannongone!Howcanthecannonhave

vanished?“A hit beside the tower,” like an oath from theOldMan, and then louder,

“What’swrongnow?GodAlmighty!WhenamIgoingtogetsomereports?”In answer there’s a chorus of cries from astern. “Breach in the diesel

room!”—“Breach in the motor room!”—Four, five times the dread word“breach”inthehubbubofshouting,halfdrownedbythehissingofcompressedairstreamingintothetanks.Finally thehandof thedepthmanometer stops, tremblesviolently,and then

slowlymovesbackward.We’rerising.TheCommander isnowstandingunder the tower.“Move it,Chief!Surface

immediately! No periscope survey! I’m going onto the bridge alone. Keepeverythingattheready!”Icy terror. I don’t havemy escape gearwithme. I stagger toward the after

hatch,forcemywaybetweentwomenwhodon’twanttomove,thenmyhandsreachthefootofmybunkandseizethething.Thecompressedairgoesonhissingandthere’swildconfusioninthecontrol

room.Soasnottobeintheway,Icrouchbesidetheforwardhatch.“Boatbreakingsurface—towerhatchfree!”theChiefreports,hisheadtilted

upward,somatteroffactlyhemightaswellbeoutonmaneuvers.TheOldMan

is already in the tower. He pushes the hatch open and the commands begin.“Both diesels full speed ahead! Hard a-starboard! Steer one hundred eightydegrees!”Hisvoiceisharshandgrating.Gooverboard?Swim?Ifastenmycompressed-airtank,hastilyfumbleabout

withthecatchesonmylifejacket.Thediesels!Thisnoise!Howlongcanthingskeep on like this? I count the seconds half aloud amid the babble of voicescomingthroughtheafterhatch.What’stheOldMangotinmind?Onehundredeightydegrees—south!We’re

runningstraightfortheAfricancoast.Someoneroars,“Portdiesel’sfailed!”Allthatmadnoiseofmachinery—isit

reallyjustonediesel?Asuddenflashinthecircleofthetowerhatchmakesmelookup.Besideme

theChief’sfaceisilluminatedbytheblindingmagnesiumglare.“Starshells!”hesnaps.Itsoundslikeabark.Theroarofthedieselisdrivingmemad.Iwanttoblockmyearsanddrown

out the hammering of the explosions in the cylinders. Better still, open mymouth, the way I learned in the artillery; there may be another shot at anymoment.I hear myself counting. While I’m murmuring numbers, a new panic cry

comesfromastern.“E-motorbilgemakingwaterfast…”I’venever swumwith escapegear.Not even inpractice.Howclose are the

patrolboats?Muchtoodark—noonewillseeusinthewater.Asforthecurrent—it’spowerful;theOldManhassaidsohimself.It’lldriveusapart.Ifwehaveto swim,we’vehad it.The surface current flowsoutof theMediterranean, sothatmeansstraight into theAtlantic.Andnoonewill findus there.Nonsense.I’m all wrong: It pushes us into the Mediterranean. Surface current…undercurrent. Count—go on counting! Seagulls. Those hooked beaks.Gelatinousflesh.Skullspickedwhiteandcoveredinslime…Reeling off numbers I get to three hundred eighty when the Commanders

roars“ALARM!”again.He comes down the ladder, left foot, right foot, perfectly normal—normal,

that is,exceptforhisvoice.“Thebastardsareshootingflares—shittingthem!”Hebringshisvoiceundercontrol.“It’slikedaylightupthere!”Whatnow?Arewenotgoingoverboardafterall?What’shegotinmind?The

reportsfromaftseemtomakenoimpressiononhim.

The bow heaviness jams me back against the forward wall of the controlroom.WiththepalmsofmyhandsIcanfeelthecolddamplacquerbehindme.AmIwrong,orarewedescendingfasterthanusual?Sinkinglikeastone!Allhellbreaksloose.Menstaggerintothecontrolroom,slip,fallfulllength.

Oneofthemhitsmeinthestomachwithhisheadashegoesdown.Ihaulhimtohisfeet.Don’trecognizewhoheis.IntheconfusionhaveImissedtheorder“Allhandsforward!”?Theneedle!Itgoesonturning…buttheboatwasbalancedforahundredfeet.

Onehundredfeet:Itoughttohavesloweddownlongago.Iconcentrateonit—thenitdisappearsintoabluehaze.Puffsofsmokeareforcingtheirwayintothecontrolroomfromaft.TheChiefjerkshisheadaround.InthatfractionofasecondIseerealhorror

inhisface.Theneedle…it’smovingmuchtoofast.TheChiefgivesahydroplaneorder.Theoldtrick—holdtheboatdynamically.

Exert pressure on the hydroplanes with E-motors. But are they running fullspeed?Ican’theartheusualhumming.Aretheyrunningatall?The nightmare pushing and sliding drowns out everything else. And the

whimpering—who can that be?Noone is recognizable in thismiserable half-light.“Forward hydroplane jammed!” the hydroplane operator reports without

turninground.TheChief is holding the beam of his inspection lamp trained on the depth

manometer.DespitethesmokeIcanseethatthepointerismovingquicklyon:160…190…Whenitgoespast225theCommanderorders,“Blowthetanks!”Thesharphissofcompressedairsoothesmyjanglednerves.Thankgod,nowatlastthescowwillregainsomeofherbuoyancy.But the pointer continues to turn. Of course, it has to—that’s normal: It’ll

keepturninguntiltheboat’stendencytofallischangedintoatendencytorise.Thatalwaystakestime.Butnow—ithastostop!Myeyesclosetightshut,butIforcethemopen,stare

atthedepthmanometer.Thepointerhasn’ttheslightestintentionofcomingtoahalt.Itgoesrighton…250…300feet.Iputallmywillpowerintomystare,trytoarrestthethinblackstripofmetal.

Nouse:Itpassesthe325markandkeepsgoing.

Perhapsthebuoyancyfromourcompressed-aircylindersisnotenough?“Boatoutofcontrol,can’tholdher,”whisperstheChief.Whatwasthat?Can’thold—can’thold?Thebreachesinthehull…Havewe

becometooheavy?Arewefinished?Igooncrouchingbesidethehatch.At what depth will the pressure hull be crushed?Whenwill the steel skin

betweentheribsberippedapart?Thepointerpasses375.Inolongerdarelookatit.Ipushmyselfup,searching

for handholds. Pressure. One of the lessons the Chief has drummed into meshoots throughmyhead:Atgreatdepths thepressureof thewater reduces theactualvolumeoftheboat.Hencetheboatgainsexcessweightcomparedtothewateritdisplaces.Sothemorewearecompressed,theheavierweget.Nomorebuoyancy,onlygravitationalpull,andanincreasedrateofdescent.“Sixhundred!”theChiefannounces.“Sixtwenty-five—sixfifty…”Thereportechoesinmyskull:sixhundredfifty,andwe’restillfalling!My breathing stops. Anymoment now there’ll be the screaming tear. And

thenthegreencataracts.Wherewillitstart?Whenwaterbreaksthrough,somethingtellsme,itstartswithasinglejet.Thewhole boat groans and cracks: a sharp report like a pistol shot, then a

hollowstridentsingingthatmakesmybloodruncold.Itgetsshrillerandshriller,ahellishsound,likeahigh-speedcircularsaw.Againasharpreportandmorecrackingandgroaning.“Passingeighthundred!”astrangevoicecries.Myfeetgooutfromunderme.

I’mjustabletocatchmyselfbythehalyardoftheskyperiscope.Thethinwireropecutspainfullyintothepalmofmyhand.Sothisisthewayitis.The pointer will soon reach 825. Another crack of the whip. Realization

dawns: Those are rivets popping. The boat is welded and riveted, and thispressureismorethansuchrivetsandweldingcanstand.Theflanges!Thosegoddamoutboardplugs!Avoice chants, “Turn notThine eyes andThy countenance fromme.”The

BibleScholar?Whythecrowdinthecontrolroom?Who’sfoulingeverythinguparoundhere?

Suddenlyahardblowknocksmeoffmyfeet.Irollforward,putmyhandonsomeone’s face, pullmyself up against a body in a leather jacket. Out of theforward hatch come screams, and then, like an echo, more screams from aft.Crackingandclattering,thefloorplatesarerepeatedlyflungupward.Cascadingnoiseofglassshattering,as ifaChristmas treehadfallenover.Anotherheavyblowwith a droning echo—and another.And now a high-pitched screech thatsaws straight through my body. The boat vibrates madly, shuddering under aseriesofdullblowsasthoughwewerebeingdraggedacrossanenormousfieldof rubble. From outside comes a monstrous groaning howl—then a madscreeching,twomoreresoundingblows.Andsuddenlyit’sallover.Exceptforahigh-pitchedwhistle.“Wehavearrived!”Theclearlyarticulatedwordsseemtobecomingthrough

adistantdoor.TheCommander.Lyingonmyback, Iwriggleuntilmylegswith theirheavybootsareunder

me,wrestlemyselfup,twist,losemyfooting,falltomyknees.Acryrisesinmythroat.Ichokeitbackjustintime.Light!What’s happened to the light?The emergency supply—whydoes no

oneturniton?Icanhearthegurglingofwater.Isthatthebilge?Waterfromtheoutsidewouldn’tgurgle.Itrytoseparateoutthesoundsandlocatethem.Cries,whispers,murmurs,the

highnoteofpanic,questionsfromtheOldMan.“Wherearemyreports?”Andimmediatelythereafter,imperiously,“Idemandproperreports!”Light at last!Half-light. Justwhat are all these people doing here? I blink,

hoodmyeyes,trytopenetratethesemi-darkness,catchfragmentsofwordsanda shout or two. The racket seems to be loudest aft. Christ!What exactly hashappened?Sometimes it’s the OldMan’s face in front of me, sometimes the Chief’s.

More snatches of reports. Sometimes a whole sentence, sometimes merefragments ofwords.Men rush pastme toward the stern, their eyeswidewithterror.Onebumpsintome,almostknockingmedown.“Ashovelfulofsand”—wheredidthosewordscomefrom?TheOldMan,of

course.“Ashovelfulofsandunderourkeel!”Itrytounderstand:Itmusthavebeendarkonthesurface.Notpitchblack,but

notmoonlit either.No flyer could possibly have discovered us in that gloom.

Aerial bombardment at night that never happens. Perhaps it was an artilleryshell after all? Naval artillery? Land-based artillery? But the Old Man did_roar,“Abee!”Andthedroningjustbeforethedetonation?TheChiefdriveshismenfrompillartopost,barkingoutorders.And then?“Wehavearrived!”Fieldof rubble—thepressurehull—we’reas

defenselessasarawegg!Themadscreeching—astreetcarroundingacurve.Ofcourse:Weranfullspeedintotherocksonthebottom.Whatelsecouldithavebeen?Bothmotorsfullspeedaheadandournosedown.Tothinktheboatcouldstandall that: the steel stretched to tearingpointby thepressure, and then theimpactitself.Three,fourmenarelyingonthefloor.TheOldManstandslikeadarkmass

underthetower,onehandontheladder.Clearasabellovertheconfusedroaringoforders,Ihearthedroningsongof

theBibleScholar:

Glorious,gloriousthatday,When,nomoresin,nomoredismay,WemarchintothePromisedLand…

Hegetsnofurther.Aflashlightblazesout.Thecontrol-roommatefetcheshimajarringblowonthemouthwithhisrighthand.Itsoundsasthoughtheman’sfrontteethhavebeenbroken.ThroughthehazeIseehiswide,astonishedeyesandbloodstreamingfromhismouth.The smallest movement hurts. Somewhere I must have struck my right

shoulderaswellasbothmyshinbones.EachtimeImove,Iseemtobewadinglaboriouslythroughwater.Inmymind’seyeIseeacross-sectionoftheStraitofGibraltar:ontheright

theAfricancoast: tectonicplatesdescendingtowardthemiddleoftheseabed;andhalfwaydowntheslopebetweentheAfricancoastandthedeepestpart,ourtinytube.TheOldMan—thatmaniac—washehopingagainstallbetter judgment that

theBritishwouldbeoff-guard?Wasn’titobviouswhatmassivedefenseswouldhavebeenpreparedagainstourarrival?Therehestands,onehandontheladder,thecrumpledcaponhishead.

TheFirstWatchOfficer’smouthisopen,hisfaceasingle,horrifiedquestionmark.Where’stheChief?He’sdisappeared.Thesoundmanreports,“Soundgear’sgonedead!”The two hydroplane operators remain seated at the control table as though

therewerestillsomethingtocontrol.Thegraduatedcircleoftheskyperiscopedanglesfromitswire.Funny—that

happened tousoncebefore!Theremust be somebetterwayofmaking them.This,let’sfaceit,isabotchedjob.Forthefirst timeInoticeasharpwhistlingandhissingfromforward:water

breakin theforeshiptoo?Crackedandleakingflanges!Whatsortofplugsarethere in the foreship anyway? The pressure hull must have held, otherwise itwouldallbeoverbynow.Aleakthroughatear—thatgoesfaster.Sank likeastone.Amiracle thatourbackwasn’tbrokenaswebangedand

rattled down. And that crash landing at some mad depth for which we wereneverdesigned!Ifeelasuddenrespectforourtubeanditspowersofresistance.Thinsteel,butfirst-class.Specialquality.Superblywellmade.Suddenly I understand. The Old Man has got our leaking vessel into

shallowerwater.Turningsouth!AshortsprintinthedirectionoftheCoastandtheOldManhassavedus.Hatsoff!Beteverythingononecardandchargefullaheadononediesel.Amoment’shesitationandthegroundwe’renowrestingonwouldhavebeenunreachable.But what’s that? Instead of the high forced singing sound, I can now hear

quiteclearlyastrangevitschivitschivitsch.I strain my ears. That’s the sound of propellers. No doubt about it—and

gettingcloser.The soundmakes everyone stop dead as though touched by amagicwand.

Nowthey’vegotus.Thekillers!They’redirectlyoverhead.Ilowermyhead,hunchmyshoulders,andlookattherigidfiguresoutofthe

cornerofmyeye.TheOldManisgnawinghislowerlip.Forwardandafttheymusthaveheardittoo:thesoundofvoiceshasstoppedatasinglestroke.Under thegun!Looking straight into themuzzleof a pistol.Whenwill the

fingertightenaroundthetrigger?Nomotion,notthequiverofaneyelid.Likepillarsofsalt.

Vitschivitschivitschivitschivitsch.That’s only a single propeller: vitschivitschivitschivitsch. Unchanged. The

high-pitched singsong plucks atmy nerves. The vessel up there is running atslow speed, otherwise we wouldn’t be able to hear the splashing sounds. Aturbineengine,nopistonstrokes.But,afterall,hecan’t justremaindirectlyoverourheadswithhispropeller

going!Afterawhilethisswishingwillhavetofade.Christ,whatdoesitmean?Ican’tseetheOldMan’sface:thatwouldinvolvepushingmywayforward

andIdon’tdaredoit.Juststaystill,musclestaut.Batedbreath.There—theOldManhas justmuttered something inhisdeepbass. “Lapof

honor—they’redoingtheirlapofhonor,”andIunderstand.Thevesselupthereisturninginacircle,astightasitpossiblycan,rightoverus.Withfullrudder.Markingoutafunnel.Andwearethepointofthatfunnel.Theyknowexactlywhereweare.Theswishinggrowsnoweaker,nostronger.Somewherebesideme,Iheara

grindingofteeth,thenachokedsigh.Thenanother—moreofasmotheredgroan.Lapofhonor!TheOldMan is right: they’rewaitingforus tocomeup.All

theyneednowissomebitofproof—piecesofwreckage,oil,afewfragmentsofflesh.Butwhydon’ttheswinedropanybombs?I hearwater dripping.Noonemoves.Again the growling voice of theOld

Man. “Lap of honor!” And again, “Lap of honor!” Someone whimpers. ThatmustbetheBibleScholaragain.Thewords fillmyskull.Long-distancebicycle races inChemnitz.Themad

thrashing of legs. Then the slow pedalingwith uplifted,waving hand, a hugegoldenwreathslungoveroneshoulderandacrossthechest—thevictor!Lapofhonor!At theend,brilliant fireworks,and thecrowdbusilywinding theirwayhomewardtothestreetcarstationlikeagreatblackearthworm.Vitschivitschivitsch…Reportsfromastern,whisperedfrommouthtomouth.Idon’tcatchthem;allI

hear is the beating of the propeller. It fillsmywhole body. I become a drumresonatingundertheunvaryingthrobofthescrews.TheBibleScholarkeepsonwhimpering.Wealllookawayfromoneanother,

stare at the floor plates or thewalls of the control room as though expecting

pictures to be projected on them. Someone says, “Jesus!” and the Old Manlaughshoarsely.Vitschivitschivitsch…Everythingseemsfaraway.Amistyveilinfrontofmyeyes.Orisitsmoke?

Areweon fireagainsomeplace?Myeyes focus.But thebluishhaze remains.Yes,smoke!Butgodknowswherefrom!Ihear thewords,“oilspouting!”Goodgod,must therebeanoil leaktoo?I

seebrilliantsmears,serpentineArtNouveauconfigurations,marbledendpapers,Icelandicmoss.I try to calm myself. The current—it may be a blessing. Wash away the

iridescentslickanddisperseit.Butwhatgoodwillthatdo?TheTommiesknowthecurrent.They’reathome

here. They’ll take it into account in their calculations; they weren’t bornyesterday.Godknowshowmuchoilhasspoutedupfromourbunkers.Butifalothasescaped,perhapsit’sagoodthing.Themorethebetter:theTommieswillthinkthey’veactuallyfinishedthejob.Whichtankcanhavecracked?Onceagaineverythinginsidemebeginstospin.Iwanttoescape,smashout

of the encircling jungle of pipes andmachinery, flee the valves and apparatusthatarenolongerofanyuse.Isuddenlyfeelabittercynicism.Afterall,thisisexactlywhatyouwanted.Youwereuptoyourneckineasyliving.Youwantedtotrysomethingheroicforachange.“Tostandforoncebefore the ineluctableYougotdrunkonitall.“…wherenomothercaresforus,nowomancrossesourpath,whereonlyrealityreigns,griminallitsmajesty…”Well,thisisit,thisisreality.Ican’tkeepthisupforlong.Alreadyself-pityismountingandIfindmyself

muttering,“Shit,yougoddamshit!”The propeller scratching is so loud that no one can hear me. My heart is

thumpinginmythroat.Myskullisthreateningtoexplode.Waiting.Wasn’tthatsomethingscrapinglightlyalongtheboat—oramIraving?Waiting—waiting—waiting.NeverbeforehaveIknownwhatit’sreallyliketobewithoutsomeweaponin

myhand.Nohammertostrikeoutwith,nowrenchtothrowmyweightbehind.

The vitschivitsch up there isn’t getting any fainter. Unbelievable! Why noAsdic?Perhapstheydon’thaveitonboard.Orperhapswe’relyinginahollow?In

suchapositionthattheycan’tsingleusout?Inanycase,wedidn’tlandonsand,that’sforsure.Thathowlingandscreechingcamefromscrapingalongrocks.The Commander inhales loudly, then mutters, “Incredible! A straight dive,

rightoutofthedarkness!”Soit’stheairplanehe’sthinkingabout.IholdmybreathforaslongasIcan,thengulpspasmodically.Myteethare

forciblytornapart,andwithasinglewheezinginhalationIpumpmyselffullofair.OncemoreIholdmybreath,compressit,forceitdown—renewedchokinginmythroat.Whenwillthebombscome?Howlongarethoseswinegoingtogoonplaying

withus?My stomach contracts.Theywouldn’t evenneed to use their ejector.Theycould simply roll a canisteroverboard—quite casually, like anunwantedbarrel.From the stern comewhispered reports to the control room. TheOldMan

seemstobepayingnoattention.“…surface bomb—contact detonator—directly beside the boat—level with

thecannon—incredible—sodark—andyet!”Ihearhimmutteringtohimself.Madness, forcing us through these narrows. It had to go wrong…Anyone

couldwork thatmuchout.And theOldManknewit!Hasknown itallalong,eversincetheradioorderstobreakthrough.Themomenthereadthatsignal,heknewwewerealreadyhalfdonefor.ThatwaswhyhewantedtodisembarkthetwoofusinVigo.What’shetalkingaboutnow?Everyone in the control room has heard him. “Polite bunch—doing their

victorymarch!”Thesarcasmworks.Themenraisetheireyes,begintomoveagain.Gradually

actionresumesinthecontrolroom.Hunchedoverandontiptoe,twomenmaketheirway,swaying,towardthestern.IstareblanklyattheOldMan:bothhandsdeepinthepocketsofhisfur-lined

vest,rightfootonarungoftheladder.Caughtinthebeamofaflashlight,he’svisibletooneandall,andit’sobviousthathe’slostnoneofhiscasualness.Heevenoffersusacondescendingshrugoftheshoulders.Somewhere there’s a clatter of tools. “Quiet!” snaps the Commander.

Gurglinginthebilge.ItmusthavebeengoingonforsometimebutthisisthefirsttimeI’venoticedit.Itstartlesme:We’relyingstill.Sohowcanthebilgebegurgling?Shit,thewatermustberisingunderthefloorplates.The Old Man continues his repertory heroics. “They’re taking care of us.

Whatmorecanoneask?”Then the gruesome whirring begins to fade. Unquestionably the vessel is

moving away.TheCommander turns his head thisway and that, the better topickupthefadingsound.I’mjustabouttotakeadeepbreathwhentheswishofthepropellercomesbackatitsoldstrength.“Interesting,”mutterstheOldMan,andnodshisheadattheChief.AllIhear

oftheirwhisperingis,“Didn’twithstandit—upsurgeofoil—yes—”ThentheOldManhissestothenavigator,“Howlonghavetheybeenriding

thatmerry-go-round?”“A full tenminutes,HerrKaleun!”Kriechbaumwhispers back.He doesn’t

moveasheanswers;onlyhisheadturnsafewdegreestooneside.“Blessingsbeuponthem!”saystheCommander.The Second Engineer, I now notice for the first time, is no longer here.

Probablydisappeared toward the stern.All hellmust havebroken loose there,buttherewerealsodisasterreportsfromthebow.Ididn’tcatchthemall.Luckywehavetwoengineersonboard.That’srare:twoononeboat.Luck—we’reinluck!Weplungetothebottom,andthedearLordslipsashovelfulofsandunderourkeel.Andontopofthat,twoengineers.Ourcupoverfloweth!TheOldManmakesaface.“Where’stheSecondEngineer?”“Inthemotorroom,HerrKaleun!”“Havehimtestthebattery.”Suddenly there seems to be trouble in every quarter at once. I become

consciousofashrillwhistlingthathasbeeninmyearsforsometime.Itmustbecomingfromthedieselroom.Thewaterleak.Oursternheaviness.Afterall,wehitbowon,but theship isnoticeablysternheavy, sowatermustbe risingaft.Thenwhynottrimforward?Normallywewouldberunningthebilgepumpsbynow. But the main bilge pump is broken and, besides, would it be able tofunctionagainsttheenormousoutsidepressure?Ninehundredfeet!Noboathaseverbeenthisdeep!Ourpumpcertainlywasn’tbuiltforit.Iglancethroughthehatchtowardthestern.What’swronginthepettyofficers’quarters?Whyisitsocrowded?Emergencylight…can’tseeadamnthing.

TheOldManisleaningagainsttheshinysilvershaftoftheskyperiscope.Icanseethehorizontalexpanseofhisthighbutnotwhathe’ssittingon.Hisrighthand ismassaging his kneecap as though it hurt. His cap is perched halfwaydownthebackofhisneck,leavinghistangledhairfree.Suddenly his face goes tense. He puts both hands behind him and pushes

himselftohisfeet.HisvoiceisnolongerawhisperasheaskstheChief,“Howmuchwaterhavewetaken?Whichbuoyancycellsaredamaged?Whichcan’tbeblown?Canwepumpoutthewateralreadyonboard?”Thequestionsraindown.“What’swrongwiththemainbilgepump?Canitbe

fixed?Ifweblowoutallundamagedbuoyancytanksandcellscompletely,willthatgiveusenoughbuoyancy?”TheOldManmoveshisshoulderasiftryingtoloosenhisbackmuscles,then

takes two or three aimless steps. The control-roommate also begins tomoveagain.Iwrackmybrains:wehavethree-compartmentconstruction.Wellandgood.

Butwhatuseisthatnow?IftheOldManweretohavethecontrol-roomhatchtowardthesternshut—justassuming,sinceit’snousetousrightnow—andifwethenmadethehatchairtight,thecontrolroomandforeshipwouldstayniceanddry.Nodoubtaboutit.Thenallwe’dhavetodoiswaituntiltheoxygenranout.Somuchforthatidea.Keepthinking,Itellmyself.Themainbilgepumpifit’soutoforder,westillhavecompressedair.Butafter that futileblowingwetriedearlier,isthereenoughleft?Whoreallyknowswhetherthecompressedairtanks have remained airtight?Without bilge pumps and compressed airwe’vehadit.Thatmuchisclear:Wehavetobeabletorunpumpsandblow.Reduceourweightand_createbuoyancy.Andwhathappens if thebuoyancycellscannolongerholdthecompressedairatall—ifitimmediatelyrushesoutthroughaleakoralooseconnectionthemomentwebegintoblow?Whatifitjustbubblesuptothesurfacewithoutprovidinganyliftatall?There’saninfernalstench.Nomistakingit—batterygas—sothebatterycells

musthavegone.Batterycellsarefragile.Theexplosionandthentheimpactaswe hit bottom… Our very ability to move depends on our batteries. If thebatteriesaregone…“Move it!” This from the Chief. “Faster, faster!” from the bosun. And

constantwhisperedreports,mostlyfromthestern.Ihearthem,butcannolongertakeanythingin.

Mencomethroughthecontrolroomswayinggrotesquelyastheytrytokeeptheir balance. I press myself against the periscope housing, tormented by thefeelingofbeingsuperfluous.Intheway.TheSecondWatchOfficer,quiteclosetome,isalsopushedtooneside.The

seamenhavenothingmoretodo.Normallythereisplentyofworkforthesailorsonashipthathasgoneaground.Butweareasunkenship.Noworkforsailorsonsunkenships.Thegasping somewhere close tome is coming from the controlroommate.

Tin-earWillie.Deafears,perhaps they’devenbeablessing.Seenothing,hearnothing, smell nothing; sink into the floor—but they’re iron floor plates, notmuchgoodforsinkinginto.Wehavefueloiltoburn:granted.Butwhothehellknowswhetherwe’lleverneed itagain.Nousepretending:we’re trapped.Nocreepingaway this time,noevasive tactics.Wemightaswellbenaileddown.Ourtubeisholding,grantedagain,butthey’veturnedit intoaCoffin.Withoutbuoyancy we can lie here till Judgment Day. The resurrection of the body…fromninehundredfeet.WonderboysoftheGermanNavy!AgainstthedimlightatthehydroplanepostIcanseethattheCommander’s

shouldersaresaggingslightly.Apparentlycompelledtoimitatehim,Iletmyselfgoloose.Icanfeelthereliefallthewaydownmyback.Therhomboideus—thatwaswhatjustuncrampeditself.Thegreatshouldermuscle,oncelearned,neverforgotten.AnatomyclassesinDresden.Thesillysnippingawayatcorpses.Gasvictimsweregood:theylastedbetterthanpeoplewhohaddiedofnaturalcauses.The hall full of skeletons, all arranged like antique sculpture. A collection ofludicrousfiguresofbone:theDiscusThrower,theVotary,theThornPuller.“Funny,” Ihear theCommanderwhisper in thedirectionof themanometer.

He turns toward me and goes on: “He came at me like this, turned aside,sideslippedalittle.Allasclearasdaylight!”I can’t see his hand motions; he confuses me completely. For him, this

airplaneistheonlythingthatseemstoexist.“Perhapsthereweretwobombs—Icouldn’tmakeoutexactly!”Theairhangsinsmokybluelayers.Hardtobreathe.Smellofgas.Twomen

intheOfficers’Messare takingoff thecoverofbatteryone.In theemergencylightthroughthehatchIcanseethatoneofthemisholdingastripofbluelitmuspaperinhislefthandandinsertingameasuringstickwithhisright;heliftsthestick and wets the litmus paper. I stare at the two as if they are altar boysperformingatHighMass.

BreathlessordersfromtheChief.“Getlimewashinthererightnow.Thenfindouthowmanycellshaverundry!”Sothebilgewaterinthebatterycompartmentcontainsacid.Alotofbattery

cellsmusthavecrackedandrunout,andthesulphuricacidhascombinedwithseawatertoformchlorinegas.That’swhat’sstinkingsohideously.TheOldManbidtoohigh,nowhe’sbeingcalled.Whatcanhedoaboutit?

ThatcrazycrowdinKernével, thegentlemenof theStaff,are theoneswecanthankforthis.We’llbeontheirconscience.Avoiceinmyheadstartstojeer:“Conscience!Someconscience!InKernével

we’renothingbutanumber.Crossitoutandthat’sit.Theshipyardbuildsanewboat.Plentyofcrewsreadyinthepersonnelreserve.”IseetheChiefthroughthehaze.Hisshirtissoakedandopentothenavel,his

hair hangs in a tangle over his face.There’s a diagonal scratch across his leftcheek.TheSecondEngineercomesfromastern.Igatherfromhiswhisperingthatthe

waterisstillslowlygaininginthemotor-roombilge.Thenthenewsisreducedtofragments.“Diesel roommakingwater…a lot…floodingvalvefor torpedocelloneundertubefivehasburst…cold-waterpipes…motorbearings…crackintheair-coolerpipe…”Hehastostoptocatchhisbreath.Bootsscuffleoverthefloorplates.Instantly theOldMan orders silence. Right, dammit—the little ship is still

circlingaroundupthere.Someof thebreachesseemtobeacompletemystery.TheSecondEngineer

can’tmakeoutwherethewaterisseepingin.It’srisinginthecontrol-roombilgetoo:Thedullgurglingisclearlyaudible.“Whatabouttheoil?”theOldManasks.“Whichfueltankwashit?”TheChiefdisappearsaft.Afteracoupleofminuteshereturnstoreport.“At

firsttherewasajetofoiloutoftheexhaustduct—butitturnedtowater.”“Strange,”saystheOldMan.Thisisobviouslyagainsttherules.Theexhaustduct,Ilearn,liesclosetothe

diesels.Ifthetanktherehadbeencracked,thejetofwatershouldhaveshotoutof the exhaust duct under much greater pressure than it actually did. TheCommander and theChiefwrack their brains.The tankwas still half full—so

howcouldtherebesuchaweakjet?Alongwiththeordinaryfueltanks,twoofourbuoyancy tankswere refilledwith additional suppliespumped in from theWeser.“Strange,”theChiefechoes.“Firstoil,thenwater.”“Wheredoestheconnectionfromthisfueltankpassthroughthepressurehull

to the outboard flange?Andwhere are the plugs for the exhaust and intake?”Apparentlythereisstillachancethatonlytheexhaustducthasbeenhitandthatthetankitselfhasnotbeencracked.Thetwoofthemcanonlyguess,sincetheductsliesodeeplyhiddenthatno

onecangetatthem.TheChiefdisappearshastilytowardthesternagain.Itrytoformapictureofthevarioustanks.Inthesaddletanks,oilisfloating

onwater,andthepressureisequalized.Noemptyspaces.Sothesetanksarelessvulnerablethanthefueltanks.Verylikelyoneoftheoutertanksiscracked.Butthemeasurementsshouldshowhowmuchoilwehavelost.TheonlyquestioniswhethertheChiefknowsexactlyhowmuchoilthereshouldbeinthetanks.Inanycase, theoilgaugeisnotthataccurate.Andthecalculationofoilusedperhourof running time is just asbad.Only the regularmeasurementsgiveexactamounts.Butwhenwereallthetankslastmeasured?Thecontrol-roommatearrives,soakedthrough,toreportthatavalveinapipe

wasbroken.Hehasrepairedthedamage.Sothatwasthereasonforallthewaterinthecontrol-roombilge.AllatonceI’mawarethatthepropellernoisehasvanished.Atrick?Perhaps

they’vestoppedtheirengine?Dowedarebreatheeasy,or is thedamnedscowtryingsomethingnew?“Everything’sbusted!”Ihearsomeonemurmur.ItmustbeDorian.Istrainto

hear.Stillnopropeller.“Now they’ve done their duty and retired,” mutters the OldMan. “But he

can’thaveseenus;it’simpossible.”Thelap-of-honorboyshavelosttheiraudience:nomorenoise,theOldMan’s

stoppedthinkingaboutthem.It’stheairplanehe’sobsessedwith…“Hecouldn’t.Absolutely out of the question—in that darkness… and those clouds. Hewastheremuchtoosuddenly.Flewstraightatus.”Thensomethinglike“…noradio—badbusiness.Damnedimportant.”Iknowwhathemeans.OthersmustbetoldaboutthenewdevicetheBritishhave.Forsometimethere’sbeenarumorthat

the Tommies have a new electronic direction finder that’s small enough to fitinto a cockpit.We’reproofpositive that the rumor is true. If theycan spotusfrom their airplanes, ifwe’re no longer safe even at night, then it’s “Lash thehelmandstartpraying.”TheOldManwants to warn the other U-boats, but we’re not exactly in a

positiontosendoutnewsbulletins.Inthecontrolroomthere’ssuchconfusionnowthatIprefertomoveintothe

Officers’Mess.Butthere’snoroomhereeither.Everythingiscoveredwithplansandblueprintsandsketches.IbecomeawareoftheterrifyingdoublemeaningoftheGermanwordfor“sketch”:abreak.Abreakinthepressurehull,abreakintheribs.The ribs simply cannot have withstood that hideous impact. Nor the

explosionsbeforeit.Thesteelskinmaybesomewhatelastic,buttheribsareintheformofringsandhaveno“give.”The Chief lays out an electrical diagram. He hastily draws lines with the

brokenstumpofapencil,murmuringconstantlytohimself,thenwithtremblinghandsheunbendsapaperclipandusesthatinstead.Hetakesthewiretoscratchasketchinthelinoleumofthetable,whichseemstoimplythatdamagetoourfurniture—whichisusuallytreatedwithsuchcare—nolongermattersatall.TheFirstWatchOfficersitsbesidehimpolishinghisbinoculars.Completely

crazy. For the moment, seamanship is absurd—but he doesn’t seem to havegraspedthisfact.Madness,asthoughclearvisionwaswhatmattereddownhere!Hisface,usuallysosmooth,hastwodeepfoldsrunningfromhisnostrilstothecorners of hismouth.His longupper lip looks as if it’s in parentheses.Blondstubbleonhischin.ThisisnolongerourdapperFirstWatchOfficer.A buzzing around the light. The fly! She too has survived. She’ll probably

outliveusall.How late is it anyway? I discover that my watch is gone. A bad sign! I

managetogetalookattheChief’s.Afewminutespastmidnight.TheCommanderappearsanddirectsaquestioningglanceattheChief.“Can’t

bedonewithavailablematerials,”iswhatImakeoftheChief’smurmuredreply.Out ofwhat, then? Are we supposed to order up some shipyard workers?

Summonthespecialistswhobuilttheboat?Allthefloorplateshavebeentakenupimmediatelyinfrontofourtableand

in thegangway.Twomenareworkingbelow inbatteryone.Lengthsof cable

andtoolsarebeinghandeddowntothemfromthecontrolroom.“Fuckingshit!”Ihearavoicesayfrombelow.“Goddamfilth!”SuddenlyPilgrimappears in theopening.Hiseyesarestreaming.Coughing

heavily, he reports in the direction of the control room, since he can’t see theChiefsittingintheOfficers’Mess.“Totaloftwenty-fourbatterycellsrunout!”Twenty-four out of how many? Will twenty-four cripple us, or is that

tolerable?TheChiefstraightensupandordersPilgrimandhishelpertoputonrescuegear.Twobrownpouchesarefetchedfromthecontrolroom.Ihandthemdown.Whilethetwoarestillbusywiththerescuegear,theChiefhimselfworkshis

waydownthroughtheholeinfrontofourtable.Afterafewminuteshetwistshimself out again, coughing, hastily fetches a plan of the batteries out of thelocker,spreadsitovertheotherplans,andstudiesitintently.Hecrossesouttheindividualbatterycells—alltwenty-fourofthem.“Thebridgingbarswon’tbeenoughinanycase.”Hedoesn’tevenraisehis

face fromthediagram.Thismeans that thesmashedcellscansimplybe takenoutandthrownoverboard.TheChiefwantstobridgethemandseewhetherthefewcellsremainingintactwillfunction.Finding the shortest way to connect the undamaged cells appears to be

extremelycomplicated.TheChiefbeginstosweat;hedrawsaline,crossesitoutagain.Everyfewsecondshesnuffles.The Gigolo comes through the wardroom, balancing a big pail of white

limewashthatslopsbackandforth.Thisistoneutralizethesulphuricacidthathasrunoutof thebatteries, therebypreventingtheformationofchlorinegas.Ihear theGigoloopen thedoorof thecan. In there is thedrainfor thewashingfaucetthatwilltakethelimewashintothebatterybilge.“Moveit,men.Move!”yellstheChief.Thenhegetsuphesitantly.Withthe

diagram still in his hand, he bends over themanhole to battery one andgiveshushed directions to theman below, Pilgrim. I can’t hear Pilgrim’s reply.TheChief might as well be talking into a void. A weird muffled coughing andgroaningcomesoutofthepit.The Commander loudly orders white bread and butter. I must be having a

stroke: white bread and butter? Now? He’s certainly not hungry. Hemust betrying to indicate that everything’s reallyall right, that theCommanderhasanappetite.Andthatwhoeverhasanappetitecan’tbeinserioustrouble.

Thestewardactuallyarriveswithacrobaticcontortions,carryingahugesliceof white bread and a knife. Where can he have found the bread in all thatconfusion?“Havehalf?”theCommanderasksme.“Nothanks!”Heproducessomethinglikeagrin,thenleansbackandgivesademonstration

ofhowtochew.His lower jawmovesbackandforth like thatofaruminatingcow.Twomenmanagetogetovertheopeninginthefloorbyswinginghand-over-

hand along a pipe, and see him eating. Which means the news will spreadthroughtheboat—exactlyasheintended.LittleZörnerpusheshimselfupfrombelowandpullsoffhisnoseclip.Sweat

isdrippingfromhisbare torso.Hesees theOldManandhismouthfallsopenwithastonishment.TheOldManpushesbreadandknifeaside:endofact.TheChief’s exasperated voice comes up from below. “Goddammit!What’s

thematternow?Zörner,why’sthelightgone?”“Shit,”sayssomeone.Apparentlythey’reshort-handedbelow.Icatchsightofalampinacornerof

themess,reachforit,testit.Itworks.Withmyarmsbracedbehindmeandthelamp pushed into the waist of my trousers I let myself down. The Chief iscomplaining again. “What the hell’s thematter?Arewe getting some light oraren’twe?”AndnowIappearastheLightoftheWorld—liketheLordGodwithhishalo.

TheChiefreceivesmesilently.Asifgettingreadytorepairtheundersidesofacar,Istretchmyselfout,halfonmyside,ontheflattravelingplatformthatrunson rails under the floor. A tidy little place down here! I hope the Chief isn’tkiddinghimself:Ifthemotordiesonus,whatwe’redoinghereisfutile.EvenIunderstand that much, Funny that he doesn’t say a word. I see his right legbesideme,lyingtherelikeacorpse’s.GoodthingIcanhearhisgaspingbreath.Nowhe’s tellingmehowtoholdthelamp,andIseehisoil-coveredfingers inthebeamoflight,curling,fanningout,reachingandcomingtogether.Silently I beseech him to keep going. Don’t fumble around so nervously.

Workcleanly,don’trushit.Everythingdependsonthis.SuddenlyIseeusfromtheoutside,apictureseenathousandtimes,handsome

heroessmearedwithoilandfilth,posingstretchedout;movie-starminerswithdistortedfacesandthickbeadsofsweatonourforeheads.Nowmyfreehandisneededtoo.Pullthistight.Allright,I’vegotit.Slowly

now,sothewrenchwon’tslipoff.Shit,itdid.Tryagain.If onlywe couldmove! It’s amine gallery, except that instead of boring a

passage, we work with wrenches, pliers, and bridging bars. The air is hardlybearablenow.Praygod theChiefdoesn’tbreakdown!Hehasawrench inhismouthlikeanIndianstalkingsomeonewithaknife.Hecrawlsforwardagoodtenfeet.Ifollowhim,scrapingbothmyshinsintheprocess.I didn’t have the faintest notion that the battery under the floor plates we

walked on every day was so big. I’d always pictured a “battery” as beingsomething much smaller. This is a gigantic enlargement of the automobilevariety,buthowmuchofitisusable?Iftherearemoreholesthanknittinginasockthenitjustisn’tasockanymoreandgoesintotheragbag.Whatwehavehereisjunkalready—they’veturnedthewholeboatintojunk,thebastards.Air!Forgod’s sake, just senddown someair!The steel clamps aroundmy

chestaresqueezingmetodeath.Afaceappearsfromabove.Ihaveasuddenimpulsetoseizeholdofit.Ican’t

makeoutwhoseit is,becauseit’sturnedahundredeightydegrees:It’shardtorecognizesomeonewho’sstandingonhishead.TheChief givesme a sign.We have to get out of here.Helping hands are

extended.I’mbreathinginsharp,jerkygasps.“Nicefuck-up,eh?”someoneasks.Ionlydimlyhearthevoice.Ican’teven

say“Yes!”Nobreath.Mylungsheave.Fortunatelythere’salittlespaceformeamongallthediagramsontheChief’ssofa.Ihearsomeonesayit’stwoo’clock.Onlytwo?TheChiefreportstotheOldManthatweneedwire.Thebridgingbarsturned

outtobeinsufficientevenforthisonehalfbattery.Allatonceitfeelsasthoughourrealproblemisn’tgettingtothesurface,but

hunting up wire: Wire is the Chief’s solution to all our problems. Even theSecondWatchOfficergetsinvolvedinthesearch.Lovely,gleamingtorpedoesinthetubes,inthebowcompartment,andinthe

upper-deckcompartment:twentythousandmarksapiece—butabitofoldwire?Allweneed is fivemarks’worthof the stuff.We’reup tohere in shells—butwire… Itmakes you laugh!Wehaveplenty of ammunition for the damn fool

cannon—both high explosive and incendiary! But the cannon’s lying evendeeperthanweare,markingthespotwherewe’dberightnowif theOldManhadn’tmadehisdashsouth.Tenhighexplosiveshells for thirty feetofwire—it’dbeabargain!Thebosunhasdisappearedintothebowcompartment.Lordknowswherehe

expectstofindwirethere.Andifthebosundoesn’tfinditinallhisscramblingabout, and if theSecondWatchOfficerdoesn’t, and thenavigatordoesn’t andthecontrol-roommatedoesn’t—whatthen?I hear, “Tear out the electric wiring,” and, “Twist them together.” That

probablywon’tamounttoanythingverymuch.Thewirehastobeofacertaindiameter.Sowebraidanumberofstrands together?Theonlyquestion ishowlongsuchatime-consumingrepairwilltake.We’regrowingperceptiblymoresternheavy.Thesterntorpedotubebreachis

reportedtobetwo-thirdsunderwater.If themotorisswamped,thenthiswholebusinessaboutthewireismeaningless.Whatdayofthemonthisit?Thecalendarhasvanishedfromthewall.Gone,

likemywristwatch.“Abriefspanoflifewasappointedus…”Afewminutes,andtheOfficers’Messbecomesunendurable.Imaneuvermy

waybackovertheopenfloorplatesintothecontrolroom.Mywholebodyachesfrommycontortions.There’sastabbingsensationbetweenmyshoulderbladesandarendingpainallthewaydownmyback.Evenmyasshurts.On the floor plates, close to the periscope housing, lies the barograph,

knockedoutoftherimofthegimbalsonwhichitrested.Twoofitsglassplatesaresmashed.The recordinghandhasbeenbentover likeahairpin.The risingandfallingcurveonthepaperdrumhasendedinadownwardplungeandathickinkblot.I’mtemptedtotearthepaperoffthedrumandkeepit.Ifweevergetoutofthis,I’llframethethingandhangitonmywall.Agenuine,documentarypieceofgraphicart!The Chief has developed a system of priorities in his fight against our

disasters.Firstthingsfirst.Containthefastestspreadingdamage.Stampoutthegrowingfirebeforethewindcatchesit.Hereonboard,everysystemisofvitalimportance—there are no superfluous installations—but our crisis has definedthedifferencebetweenthevitalandthemerelyessential.TheCommanderand theChiefarewhispering together.Thechiefmechanic

Johann appears from astern; the control-room mate joins in; even the chief

mechanic Franz is allowed to participate. The boat’s technical braintrust isholding a meeting in the control room—the only man missing is the SecondEngineer,who’sinthemotorroom.AsfarasIcantell,workinthesternisgoingaheadsteadilyandmethodically.TheChiefhasturnedoverthetroublewiththebatterytothetwoE-mates.Willtheybeabletocope?The group disperses; only the Commander and Isenberg, the control-room

mate, remaining. For the benefit of the men inching their way past, theCommandermakesashowofsettlinghimselffirmlyonthechartchest,wrappedinhisleatherjacket,botharmspusheddeepintothepockets,obviouslyatease:thepictureofamanwhoknowshecanrelyonhisexperts.Pilgrim comes through and requests permission to go forward in search of

wire.“Goahead!”says theOldMan.Weneedwire?Thenwirewillbeprovided,

evenifwehavetoreelitoutofourownbacksides.The bosun pops up in the forward hatch, as ecstatic as a child under a

Christmastree,afewyardsofoldthickwireinhisoilsmearedhands.“Well,whatdoyouknow?”saystheOldMan.“That’ssomething,anyway!”NumberOnegoessplashingthroughthewater thathasnowrisenabove the

floorplates in the after half of the control roomandclimbs through thehatchinto the petty officers’ compartment, to where battery number two is situatedunderthefloorplates.“Great!”IhearthevoiceoftheChieffromastern.Thebosuncomesback,actingasifhe’ddiscoveredAmericaallbyhimself.A

simple soul. Doesn’t seem to realize that a few feet of wire won’t solve ourproblems.“Goonlooking!”theOldManordersNumberOne.Thenthere’ssilencefora

goodtenminutes:noaudienceforhimtoplayto.“Let’shopetheydon’tcomebackwithsweepwires!”Ihearhimsayfinally.Sweepwires? I think of the Breton mussel fishermen dragging their trawls

overthesandybottomtopulloutthehalf-buriedshells.Butwe’redefinitelynotlyingona sandybottom.We’rebetween rocks.Whichmeans that sweepwireswouldbenowaytocatchourboat—ifthey’rewhatIthinktheyare.TheChiefreappears.“How’sitgoing?”theCommanderasks.“Fine.Almostdone.Anotherthreecells,HerrKaleun.”

“Andastern?”“So-so!”So-so.Thatmeanswe’reinprettybadshape.IcollapseontotheleathersofaintheOfficers’Messandtrytovisualizeour

situation:Whilewewere plummeting down, theOldMan ordered us to blowwith everything we had. But it didn’t do any good:We’d already shipped somuchwaterthatitcouldn’tbecompensatedforbyforcingthewateroutOfthebuoyancytanks.Withalltanksblown,theboatstillsank.Itfollowsthatwemaybelyingonthebottom,butthere’sstillairinourbuoyancytanks—thesameairwe blew in.And this air could lift us statically—but only ifwe succeeded inreducing theweightof theboat. It’s abit like sitting in thegondolaof a fullyinflatedballoon,keptanchoredtothegroundbyexcessballast.Ballasthastobethrownoutofthegondolasothattheballooncanrise.Fairenough.Butitonlyholdsgoodforusontheassumptionthattheairventsinourbuoyancytanksarestillwatertight.Ifthevalveshavesufferedtoo—thatis,iftheywon’tclose—thenpresumablythere’snoairinthetanksandwecanblowinasmuchmoreaswelike—theentirecontentsof thecompressedaircylinders—withouttheslightesteffect.Of course there’s also the dynamic method of shifting the boat. With the

enginegoingandbothhydroplanesup,theboatcanberaiseddiagonallylikeanairplaneontakeoff.Butthismethodisonlypossiblewithslightexcessweight.Itcertainlywon’tworkinourcase:Theboat’stooheavyforthat.Andwhetherthejuicewehave left in thebatteries isenough to turnourscrews forevena fewminutes is abigquestion.Does theChiefhaveany ideahowmuchpower thefewundamagedcellscanstillsupply?We’reprobablystuckwiththeballoonmethod.Sothewaterthathasforcedits

wayintotheboatmustbegotridof.Expelled.Atallcosts.Andthenup!Upandoverboard,andswimforit.Icanhangmyfilmsaroundmyneck.I’vemadeawatertightbundle.Theones

of the stormhave to go in.They at leastmust be saved.There’ve never beenphotographslikethem.ThedamnedcurrentintheStrait—ifitweren’tforthat.Ashovelfulofsandunderourkeelattheverylastmoment.Amiracle.TheOldManischewinghislowerlip.It’stheChiefwho’sdoingthethinking

and directing. Everything depends on his decisions. How can he stand it?Hehasn’tbeenabletoletupforamoment.

Allbreachesseem tohavebeenstoppedexcept for theodd tricklehereandthere,afewoozingwoundsinoursteelskin.Butthewaterthat’salreadyintheboat? I have no idea howmuch of it there is. Two pints ofwater equals twopoundsweight—weightIfeelineverynerveofmybody.We’reheavy,heavy—monstrouslyheavy.Weliehereonthebottomasifwe’vetakenroot.“Stinksofshitinhere!”That’sTin-earWillie.“Soopenthewindows!”jeersFrenssen.From the stern there’s an explosive hiss like escaping steam. It goes right

throughme.Forchrissake,what’shappenednow?Thenoisechangestothatofan acetylene torch cutting steel. Impossible to get back there and see what itreallyis.Whatdoes theOldManhave inmind?What’she thinking about ashe sits

therestaringintothinair?Willheattempttosurface,runfortheAfricancoast,and beach the boat? That would seem the most likely, because he wants tosurface before it’s light. If all he had inmindwas to surface and have us gooverboard, he wouldn’t care whether the men aft got their place clear beforedawnornot.Butthatisexactlywhathekeepsaskingabout.Swimminginthedarkwouldbemuchtoorisky.Thecurrentwouldsplitusup

in no seconds flat. Would the Tommies even notice us at all? We have noemergency blinkers on our life preservers. Not even red flares. Totallyunequippedforspecialemergencies.NotasoundfromtheOldMan.Icanhardlyquestionhim.Thefirstthingis

obviouslytotrytofreetheboatfromthebottom,getridofballast.Butthen,ifthatworks,whatdowedonext?AtthismomentheappearsintheOfficers’Mess.“He’sboundtogetamedal

forthis,”Ihearhimsay.“Oneofthosenicejinglingones,theVictoriaCrossorsomething.”Istareathim,moonstruck.“He’s certainly earned it. Perfect piece ofwork. No fault of hiswe’re still

lyingaroundhereinsteadofbeingblowntobits!”I can see it now. A low barracks on Gibraltar. A crowd of pilots in their

overalls, champagneglasses inhand,gathered to celebrate the sinkingof aU-boat—a definite kill, confirmed by aerial reconnaissance, and with additionalcorroborationbytheNavy.

“Naked fear,” whispers the Commander, pointing at the back of the newcontrol-roomassistant.Hissarcasmislikealaying-on-of-hands:Comeuntome,allyethatlabourandareheavyladen,andIwillgiveyourest.The navigator is standing in the gangway and reports, “Periscope top’s

cracked.” It sounds as if he’d discovered a hole in his shoe. “Sky periscope’sgonetoo!”“So,” is all the OldMan says. He sounds tired and resigned, as if a little

destructionmoreorlessnolongermattered.Thingsmust lookworst aft. Iwonderhow thebombcouldhaveworked so

muchhavocinthestern.Thedamageinthecontrolroomandinbatteryoneisunderstandable, but that so much should have been broken aft is a mystery.Perhapsthereweretwobombs?Didn’titsoundlikeadoubleexplosion?Ican’tasktheOldMan.TheChief comes through the aftership to report to theOldMan. From his

outpouringsIdiscoverthatalmostalltheoutboardplugshaveleaked.Thewholeelectrical system has failed. As a result, the gunnery control is also out ofcommission.Thebearingsmayalsohavebeensomewhatdamaged.However,allthatmeansisthatthey’drunhotifthedrivingshaftscouldturn.What he’s providing is a complete inventory of the damages.Not only the

main bilge pump but all other bilge pumps have failed. The cold-water pumpditto.Theforwardtrimcellisnolongerwatertight.Thefoundationboltsoftheport diesel—miraculously—have held. But those of the starboard diesel aresheared off. The compressors have been torn from their bases. The forwardhydroplane can hardly bemoved—probably wreckedwhen the boat slammedinto the rocks on the bottom.The compass system is ruined—magnetic, gyro,secondary—everything. The automatic log and the sounder system have beentornfromtheirsupportsandareprobablyoutofaction.Theradiohasbeenbadlyhit.Eventheengineroomtelegraphisoutoforder.“Babelisnotyetlost,”mutterstheOldMan.TheChiefblinksandseemsto

have trouble recognizing him.What’s the exact quotation? I rack my brains.Babellost?That’snotit.SuddenlyIhearanewsound.Noquestion,it’scomingfromoutside:ahigh,

rhythmicsingsongwithadullerbeat in it.There theyareagain!TheOldManhearditatthesameinstantIdid.Helistenswithhismouthopenandascowlonhisface.Thevibrationandwhiningincrease.Turbines!TheAsdicissuretobenext. Everyone freezes—sitting, standing, kneeling. I have trouble identifying

thedarkmassesaroundme.To the leftbeside theperiscope—thatmustbe thenavigator. Recognizable as usual, because his left shoulder is higher than hisright.ThehunchedfigureinfrontofthehydroplanetableistheChief.ThemantohisleftmustbetheSecondWatchOfficer.Directlyundertheoverheadhatchisthecontrol-roommate.Againtheclampsaroundmychest,thechokinginmythroat.Mypulseishammering.Everyoneintheroommustbeabletohearit.My ears pick up awhole range of tiny sounds, including all the ones they

missed earlier: the squeaking of leather jackets, for example, and the tinymouselikepeepingofthesolesofbootsonironfloorplates.Sweepwires?Asdic?Maybe the ship thatwas so fondofmaking the lapof

honorhadnodepthchargesonboard,andthisisitsreplacement.I tenseeverymuscle,gototallyrigid.Mustn’tletanythingshow.What’shappening?Isthewhiningofthescrewslettingupabit—oramIjust

foolingmyself?Pain in my lungs. Cautiously, gently, I let my chest expand. Breathe in

unsteadily, then gasp for the next lungful. No doubt about it, the noises aregettingweaker.“Goingaway,”mutterstheOldMan.AndimmediatelyIgolimp.“Destroyer,” he says expressionlessly. “It’s teemingwith ships aroundhere.

They’vecalledupeverythingthatcanfloat!”Bywhichhemeansitwaspureaccidentthatashippassedoverus.Astoneis

liftedfrommyheart.Newsoundstojanglemynerves—thistimetheringingandpoundingoftools

makesme jump.They’re apparently hard atwork again in the aftership.Onlynowdoesitdawnonmethatonceagaintherearemoremeninthecontrolroomthanbelonghere.Thisattempttogetaplaceunderthetowerwhentheenemyisaroundispureatavism.Asifthe“lords”didn’talreadyknowhowdeepweare.Downheretheseamenhavenoadvantageovertheengine-roompersonnel.Therescuegearisn’tworthadamn.Except,thatis,fortheoxygencartridges,whichcontainhalfanhouroflifeifouroxygencylindersgiveout.The thought that the Tommies have long since written us off and that our

presumedsinkinghasbeenreportedhoursagototheBritishAdmiraltyfillsmewithsomethingbetweencontemptandhorror.Notyet,youfuckers.AslongasIamaboard,thisboatcannotperish.Thelinesofmyhandsaythat

Iwillhavealonglife.Sowe’reboundtogetthrough.Only,noonemustfindoutthatI’mimmune,orI’dbeajinx.Theyhaven’tgotus,notbyalongshot!We’restillbreathing—underpressureandgasping,admittedly,butwe’restillalive.Ifonlywecouldsendoutabulletin!Butevenifourradiohadn’tgonetohell,

wecouldn’ttransmitfromthisdepth.Sonooneathomewillknowhowwemetour end. “Died nobly in his country’s service,” the usual letter from theCommanderinChieftothenextofkin.Ourdisasterwillremainamystery.Thatis,unlesstheBritishAdmiraltyrelaysovertheCalaisradiohowtheycaughtus.They’ve developed death reports into a fine art: precise details, so that the

peopleathomewillbelievethem;name,birthdate,sizeoftheCommander’scap.AndwhataboutH.Q.?They’ll taketheir timebeforesendingoutthethree-starreport, as theyusuallydowith theDönitzVolunteerCorps.Besides,wemighthavevalidreasonsfornotsendingsignals.We’resuretobeorderedtoreportinthenearfuture.Once,twice—thesameoldstory.But theway things stand, the gentlemen of the Staff will soon conclude—

correctly—thatwehaven’tachievedtherequisitebreakthrough.Therewas,afterall, very little chance we would, as Kernével was well aware. Their madslavedrivercangentlybreakthenewstohimselfthathe’sshortonemoreboat,sunkoffGibraltar—Britishwarport—arockinhabitedbyapes—Mediterraneanlocation—the“enchantedmeetingplaceoftwoseductiveclimates”—that’swhatitsaid,afterall!Christ!Don’tgotopieces!Istareatthebananashangingfromthe ceiling over the sound room, quietly ripening away. Two, three splendidspecimensofpineappleamongthem.Butthisonlymakesmefeelworse:below,thesmashed-upbatteries;upthere,aSpanishgarden!TheChiefappearsagain,opensthelockercontainingtherolledupdiagrams,

rifflesthrough,pullsoneout,andspreadsitonthetable.Icometohisassistancebyweighting down the corners of the diagramwith books. It’s a longitudinalsectionoftheboat,withthepipelinesdrawninasblackveinsorredarteries.TheSecondEngineerbobsup, tangledmopofhair,outofbreath.Hebends

overtheplanbesidetheChief.Notawordoutofhimeither.Silentmoviestuff.Everything hangs on their deliberations.They’re sitting in judgment on our

fate.Ikeepquiet.Don’tdisturbthem.TheChief’spencilpointsataplaceonthediagram and he nods at his colleague, who nods back—“understood.” Bothstraightenupsimultaneously.ItlooksasthoughtheChiefnowknowshowtogoaboutgetting thewater out of theboat.But howwill hemanage tomake anyheadwayagainsttheexternalpressure?

I catch sight of a piece of bread with a bite out of it on the table in theOfficers’ Mess—fresh white bread from the Weser. Thickly buttered, with achunkofsausageonit.Repulsive!Mystomachturns.Someonemusthavebeeneatingjustwhentheexplosioncame.Amazingitdidn’tslideoffthetablewhentheboatstoodonitshead.Breathingisgettingharderbytheminute.Whydoesn’ttheChiefreleasemore

oxygen?Patheticthatwe’resodependentonair.Ineedonlyholdmybreathforashort timeand thesecondsbegin ticking inmyear,and thenIgetachokingsensationinmythroat.Wehavefreshbread,we’refullystockedwithfood—butwhatwe reallyneed is air. It’s beingpowerfullybroughthome tous thatmancan’texistwithoutit.WhenelsehaveIeverdwelledonthefactthatIcan’tlivewithoutoxygen,thatbehindmyribstwoflabbylobesareunceasinglyexpandingandcontracting.Lungs—I’veonlyseenthemcooked.Boiled lungs—afavoritedogfood!Lungswithdumplings,anentréeforsixtypfennigsinthemaindepot,where they kept the liver-dumpling soup warm in marmalade jars, insidesauerkraut kettles along with all the sawdust from the floor-or did, until thehealthsquadshuttheplacedown.Ninehundredfeet.What’stheweightofthecolumnofwaterthat’srestingon

the boat? I used to know: I had the figures imprinted onmymind. But nowthey’ve faded.Mybrain is hardly functioning at all. I can’t thinkwith all thisdullpressureinsidemyskull.Inmyleft-handtrouserpocketIfeelmytalisman—anovalpieceofturquoise.

Iopenmyleftfistandrunmyfingerslightlyoverthestone:likesmooth,slightlyroundedskin.Simone’sbelly!ImmediatelyIhearherbabblinginmyear,“Thatismy littlenombril – what do you call it? Button in the belly?Belly button.Funny—pour moi c’est ma boite a ordure—regarde—regarde!” She fingerssome fluffoutof thedepthsofhernavel andholds it upwith agiggle. If shecouldseemenow,ninehundredfeetdown.Notjustanywhere,somewhereoutthere in theAtlantic,butwithapermanentaddress:StraitofGibraltar,AfricanSideOf.Hereweareinourlittletubewithitscargooffifty-onebodies:flesh,bone,blood,spinal jelly,pumpinglungsandracingpulses, twitchingeyelids—fifty-oneminds,eachwithitsownworldofmemories.Itrytopictureherhair.Howdidshewearittowardtheend?Irackmybrains

butcan’tremember.Itrytobringherimagecloser,seeherhair,butitremainsindistinct. Doesn’t matter. It’ll come back suddenly. Mustn’t try so hard.Memoriesreturnoftheirownaccord.

Icanseehervioletsweater.Andtheyellowbandanaandthemauve-coloredblouse with the tiny pattern that, if you looked at it closely, read “Vive laFrance” a thousand times over. The orangegold tone of her skin. And now Ihave hermad hairdo aswell.The strands that always fell across her foreheadwere what excited me. It was important to Simone to look deliberatelydisheveledinanartisticway.Itwasn’trightofhertoswipemynewbinocularsforherHerrPapa.Hemust

havewanted to test themout to seewhether thenewdesign really is somuchbetterthantheold,musthavebeenintriguedbythenewbluetintthatmakesourglasses somuch better for nightwork. And Simone?Did she simplywant toshowoff?Moniquegotatoycoffin,Genevievegotone,Germainetoo—butnotSimone.

TheOldManturnsupwiththeChief.Theybendoveradiagram.Icatchthewords“byhandintotheregulatortank.”Aha,thatmustbeaboutthewaterthathasgotin!Byhand?Willthatwork?Anyway,bothofthemnod.“Then outboard from the regulator tank by means of auxiliary pumps and

compressedair…”TheChief’svoicehasadistinctvibrato.Amiraclethathe’sstillonhisfeet—

he was already wiped out before this mess began. Anyone with a couple ofdozendepthpursuitsbehindhimisinevitablyusedup.Whichwaswhyhewasduetoberelieved.Justonemorepatrol!Andnowthis!Hehasbigdropsofsweatonhisforehead,buthisbrowisso

furrowedandwrinkledthattheycan’trunoff.Whenheturnshishead,youcanseehiswholefaceshiningwithsweat.“…racket…can’tbeavoided…can’tbedone…buoyancycellthree…”What’s he saying about buoyancy cell three? It can’t have suffered any

damage,itliesinsidethepressurehull.Whatwasittheysaid:Theboatcanfloatonbuoyancycellthreealone—butwithsomuchwateraboard,theamountofliftthisonecellcangiveisnaturallynotenough_nothinglikeit.Soitcomesbacktothis:Thewaterhastobegotoutoftheboatasquicklyaspossible.Ihaven’tthefaintest ideahowhe intends topump thewater fromthecontrol roominto theregulatorcellsandthenfromtheregulatorcellsoverboard.Buthe’snofool.Heneverproposesanythingifhe’snotsureofhisfacts.

I gather that he’s unwilling to try to free theboat from thebottomuntil allnecessaryrepairshavebeenmade.Apparentlyoneattemptisallwe’vegot.“Boat…firstgether…evenkeel!”TheOldMan.Ofcoursethedamnedstern

heaviness!Butthere’snoquestionofpumpingthewaterforwardnow.So?“…waterbyhandfromaftintothecontrolroom.”“Byhand.”Forchrissake—

byhand? In pans?Hand to hand? I stare at theOldMan andwait for him tomake his meaning clear, then I catch the words, “bucket brigade.” He reallymeansit.Afirebrigadeformsupthroughthepettyofficers’quartersandthegalley,and

Ijoinit.Myplaceisbesidethehatch.Hoarselywhispereddirectionsandcurses.Abucketcomestowardme—thekindthestewardusestowashdishes.It’shalffull.IreachforitandletitswinglikeaU-shapeddumbbellthroughthehatch;thecontrol-roommatehasthejoboftakingitfromme.Icanhearhimemptyitout into the control-room bilge level with the periscope. The sharp gush andsplasharesuggestive,disgusting.Moreandmorepailsandbucketsarealsobeinghandedbackintheopposite

direction to be passed through toward the stern. Instant chaos.Hissing orders,theChiefstraightensouttheconfusionofemptyandfull.ThemanwhohandsthepailstomeisZeitler,wearingafilthy,tornshirt.With

each bucket he shows me a grimly determined face. From behind him comecroaksandwhispersof“Lookout!”:aparticularlyheavybucketappears.Ihaveto seize the handle with both hands. It still slops over. The swill soaks mytrousersandshoes.Mybackisalreadywet—butthat’ssweat.TwiceasIpassabucketIgetanencouraginggrinfromtheOldMan.Thatatleastissomething.Sometimes the procession stops because there’s been a foul-up somewhere

astern.Afewhalf-suppressedcursesandthenthechainbeginsagain.Thecontrol-roommatedoesn’thavetobecareful.He’sthelastinlineandcan

letthewaterspilloverontothefloorplates.Icanseethatthefloorinthepettyofficers’compartmentisalsowet.Butunderthefloorplatesinthatcompartmentisbatterytwo.Won’titbedamaged?ItellmyselfthattheChiefisaround:He’lltakecareofit.Anotherslop—rightovermystomachthistime.Shit!Adullbang,curses, thechainstopsagain; this timeabuckethasapparently

hitthehatchrimofthegalley.

AmIwrong?Orhastheboatalreadytiltedbackacoupleofdegreestowardthehorizontal?Thewaterinthecontrolroomisnowankledeep.How late is it?Mustbeat least fouram.Toobadaboutmywristwatch.Of

course the leather band was a dead loss—glued together, not sewn. Moderntrash.Buttheworksweregood.Ihadittenyearswithoutasinglerepair.“Look out!” Zeitler snaps.Damn it, Imust be careful. I no longer have to

bendmyarm.IfZeitlerhandsmethepailproperly,Icansavealotofstrength.Hehasaworse timeof it:Hehas toheavethepails throughthehatch,andheneedsbothhandstodoit,Ionlyhavetousemyright.Inolongerevennoticethewayitreachesoutandletsthepailswingthroughlikeatrapezeuntilitreachesthecatcherontheotherside.“When’s first light?” the OldMan asks the navigator. Kriechbaum thumbs

throughhis tables. “Morning light begins at 07.30.”So there’svery little timeleft!It may already be later than four o’clock. If we don’t make our try soon,

surfacing will be out for a whole day—we’ll have to wait till evening. Thatmeans the people up therewill have those hours of beautiful sunlight to playgameswithus.“Takeabreak.”Thewhispersfrommouthtomouth.“Break—break—break.”If theOldMan is thinkingofmakinga runfor thecoast—alwaysassuming

that the attempt to surface is successful—then he needs the protection ofdarkness.Wehadn’tevenreachedthenarrowestspotintheStrait.Thecoastisstillquiteastretchfromhere,sothetimethatremainstous,ifwe’retosucceed,is even shorter.Will thebitof juice in theundamagedcellsbeenough for themotors?Andwhat good is thewhole patchwork on both batteries if the shaftbearingsaredamaged?TheChief’smisgivingsweren’tjustthinair.Christ,lookatthemen!Greenfaces,yellowfaces;green-blackcirclesaround

thesocketsofred-rimmedeyes.Mouthshalfopenfromlackofair,darkholes.TheChiefreappearstoreportthatthemotorsareoutofdanger.However,he

wantsmorewateroutofthemainmotorroom.“Allright,”saystheCommanderinhisnormalvoice.“Carryon!”ThefirsttimeIreachforapailagainIrealizehowsoremymusclesare.Ican

hardlymanagetogetbackintotheproperswing.Choking,heavinglungs.Nomoreairintheboat.Butonethingiscertain:We

aredefinitelygettingbackontoanevenkeel.TheCommandersloshesovertothehatch.“Goingokay?”hecallsaft.“Jawohl,HerrKaleun!”Icoulddroprighthere,inthemuckalloverthefloorplates—Iwouldn’tgive

adamn.Icountthepails.JustasI’msaying“fifty”tomyself,theordercomesfromastern.“Belaythebailing!”Thankgod!IstillhavetotakefourorfivebucketsfromZeitler,buttheempty

pails no longer come back from the control-room mate: They’re passed onfartherforward.Nowtogetmywetgearoff.Chaosinthepettyofficers’compartmentbecause

everyonewantsdryclothes.Igetholdofmysweater,evenmanagetofindmyleathertrousersonmybunk.Fantastic!Drythings!Andnowintomyseaboots.Frenssen’selbow lands inmy ribs, andPilgrim tramplesonmy right foot,butfinally I manage it. I splash through the control room, bouncing like a streeturchin.IntheOfficers’MessIcanfinallyputmyfeetup.ThenIhear“oxygen.”Frommouthtomouththeordergoesthroughtheboat,

“Adjustpotashcartridges.Allmenoffdutyrestontheirbunks!”TheSecondWatchOfficerstaresatmeinconsternation.Another message is passed frommouth to mouth. “Watch one another. Be

surenoone’ssnorkelslipsoutofhismouthwhilehe’sasleep.”“Haven’tusedoneoftheseforalongtime,”muttersthebosunnextdoor.Potashcartridges.Thatanswersthequestion—it’sgoingtotakealongtime.

Norosyglowofdawnforusthistime.TheSecondWatchOfficersaysnothing.Hedoesn’tbataneye,thoughtheordersdon’tseemverywelcometohim.Iseebyhiswatchthatit’sfiveo’clock.I stagger back toward the stern again, splashing through the water in the

controlroom,awareofthefrozenfacesofthepersonnel.Breakingoutthepotashcartridges means that there’s no possibility of surfacing during the next fewhours. Which also means: wait till dark. A whole day on the bottom. GodAlmighty!Theengine-roomcrewwillhaveampletimetoputtheirshopinorderagain.Noreasontohurrynow.WithtremblinghandsIfisharoundinacornerattheheadofmybeduntilI

findmypotashcartridge,arectangularmetalcasetwicethesizeofacigarbox.

Theother inhabitantsof thepettyofficers’compartmentarealreadyatworkscrewing in the tubeswith themouthpiece and getting the rubber nozzle—thesnorkel—between their teeth.OnlyZeitlerhasn’tgot that far:He’s swearingabluestreak.“Goddamshit—I’vefuckingwellhadenough!”The black tubes are already hanging out of Pilgrim’s and Kleinschmidt’s

mouths. I put on the nose clip, noticing as I do so how shakymy hands are.CautiouslyItakethefirstgulpofairthroughthecartridge.Neverdoneitbefore.Nervous about how it’ll work. As I breathe out again, the valve in themouthpiecerattles:thatcan’tberight.WasIbreathingtoohard?Wellthen,slowdown,doitmorequietly.Theairfromthesnouthasafoultasteofrubber.Hopeitwon’tgoonlikethat.Theboxisheavy.Ithangsinfrontofmystomachlikeastreetvendor’stray.

Weighs a good two pounds. The contents are supposed to absorb the carbondioxidewebreatheout,oratleastenoughofitsothatwhatwebreatheinwon’tcontainmorethanfourpercent.Moreisdangerous.Wecouldsuffocate inourownexhalation.“Whenitgetschemical, itgetspsychological,”saidtheChief.Howrighthewas!Howlongwilltheoxygenreallylast?TheunderwaterenduranceofaVII-Cis

supposedtobethreedays.Sotheremustbeenoughoxygeninthetanksforthreetimestwenty-fourhours—withoutforgettingtheperiodofgracecontainedinthesteelcylindersofthelife-savinggear.IfSimonecouldseemelikethis,withthesnorkelinmymouthandthepotash

cartridgeonmystomach…IstareatZeitler, takinghimasmymirror image:wetmattedhair;dropsof

sweatthickonhisforehead;great,staring,feverisheyeswithviolet-blackringsunderneath;nose clamped shutby the clip.Under it his dark rubberproboscisprotrudingfromamattedstubbleofbeard—aterrifyingcarnivalfigure.Thoseghoulishbeards!Howlonghaveweactuallybeenout?Trycounting:

seven,eightweeks?Orisitactuallynineorten?Simone drifts in again. I see her on amovie screen, smiling, gesticulating,

pushingdownhershoulderstraps.Iblink—andshedisappears.Justalookaroundthecontrolroom,Isaytomyself,andclamberlaboriously

throughthehatch.Thisdamnedstreetvendor’sbox!NowIseeSimoneprojecteddirectlyontopipes,shafts,andmanometers. Isee the tangleofductsandhandwheels for shut-off valves, and over them Simone: breasts, thighs, fluff, her

moist,half-openmouth.Sherollsoveronherstomach,raisingherfeetintheair,reaches for her ankles, and does the “swan.” The striped shadows from thevenetianblindsglidebackandforthoverherbodyassherocks.Zebra-swan.Iclosemyeyes.Thenrightinfrontofmeadoubleexposure:afacewithaproboscisgrowing

outofitsmouth.Ijump:It’stheSecondWatchOfficer.He’sstaringatme.Heseemstowanttocommunicate.Awkwardlyhepullstherubbernozzleoutofhismouth,drippingsaliva.“Refrain fromuseofpistols.Dangerofexplosion!”hesaysnasally,liftinghiseyebrows.Ofcourse!Thegasfromthebattery.Hesucksinhispacifieragain,andwinkshislefteyebeforesittingdownon

hisbunk.Ican’tevensay,“Veryfunny,youidiot!”

Unsteadyasadrunkard,Ifeelmywayalongthelockers,touchtheOldMan’scurtain,thenmorepaneledwalls.NocontortionsneededtogetintotheOfficers’Mess.Thefloorplateshavebeenlaiddownagain.Thebattery’sprobablynotatotal write-off. In rudimentary form it may still be usable for a very shortdistanceunderpower.There’s a light burning. Ifwe left only this one bulb on itwould probably

keepburningforever.Anelectricbulb—fortywatts—mustuselesscurrentinawholeweekthanisneededforasingleturnofthepropellers.TheEternalLight—ninehundredfeetdown!Someone has cleaned up—more or less. The pictures are back on thewall

again,admittedlywithoutglass.Eventhebooksareintheshelf,insomekindofroughorder.TheFirstWatchOfficermustbelyinginhisbunk.Atanyratehiscurtain is closed.TheSecondWatchOfficer is sitting in the left corner of theChief’s bunk, eyes tight shut. He’d do better to lie down properly instead ofslumpinginacornerlikeawetsack.He’swormedhiswayinsofirmlythathedoesn’tlookasifheeverintendstomoveagain.It hasneverbeen sopeaceful inherebefore.No traffic, nochangingof the

watch. Pictures and books. The familiar lamplight, the handsome veinedwoodwork,theblackleathersofa.Nopipes,nowhiteship’spaint,notsomuchasasquareinchofdamagedhull.Agreensilkshadeandglassbeadfringeonthelamp and it would look just like home. A bunch of flowers on the table—artificial ones for all I care—and a fringed tablecloth, and it would be an

honestto-god living room. Of course the leather sofa should have a piece ofwoodoveritwithbrandedlettersorasamplerincross-stitchwiththemotto:“Apoorthing,butmineown.”Admittedly,theSecondWatchOfficerspoilsthepicture.Orratherhissnorkel

does.Nofancy-dresspartyinourlivingroom!Thissilenceintheboat!It’sasifthecrewwerenolongeraboard,asifwetwo

—theSecondWatchOfficerandI—wereallalonebetweenthesefourwalls.The Second Watch Officer has let his head sink down on his chest. He’s

succeededinshuttingoutthesurroundingworld.NoworriestotroubletheBabyOfficer,ourGardenGnome.Howonearthhashemanaged,nowofalltimes,togodeadtotheworld?Isheresignedtohisfate,likemostofthemen?OrishisparticularsleepingpilltheOldMan’sconfidenceact?BlindtrustintheabilitiesoftheChief,intheskilloftherepaircrew?Orisitsimplydiscipline?Sleepistheorder,sosleephedoes?Nowandagainhegruntsorchokesonhisownsaliva;hedoesn’twakeupbut

sucklesawaywithsmackingnoiseslikeapigletatthetitofthemothersow.Readytodrop.SometimesIdrowseforminutesatatime,thenforcemyself

back awake. Itmust be after six o’clocknow.Now theSecondWatchOfficerlookslikeanexhaustedfireman.Ioughttotrytokeepmoving.Notjustsitaroundhereonmybackside.Better

to concentrate on everything that’s going on in the boat right now. Fix thedetails.Focusonsomething.Butnoneofthatrequiresanymovementatall.Forexample,IcanfixmyeyesontheSecondWatchOfficer’sglitteringrodentteeth.Then his left earlobe: properly developed, better formed than the FirstWatchOfficer’s.IobservetheSecondWatchOfficerwithscientificprecision,divideuphisheadintoseparatesections.Makeenlargementsofhiseyelashes,brows,lips.I try to organizemy thoughts.But it’s like turning on a defectivemotor: It

firesafewtimesandthengoesdead.Howmanyhourshaveweactuallybeendownhere?Itmusthavebeenaround

midnightwhenwesank,byship’stimeinanycase.Butthatdoesn’tcorrespondtoourgeographicallocationandisalsooffanhour;onboard,we’reonGermanSummer Time. Do I subtract or add? I can’t decide. Not even something assimpleasthat.I’mcompletelyofftrack.Accordingtoship’stimeitmustbeatleast07.00.Inanycasewe’velostanychancewehadofattemptingtosurfaceinthegrayofdawn.We’llhavetowaittillit’sdarkagainupthere.

The British cooksmust have been up long ago, serving huge quantities offriedeggsandbacon,theirstandardbreakfastforthefleet.Hunger?Forgod’ssake,don’teventhinkabouteating!TheOldManwasonlysuggestingthatwetrytosurfacebeforedawninorder

tokeepusonour feet.Cleverofhimnot tomake itdefinite.Falseoptimism?Bullshit!Itwasjusttokeepthemengoing.Awholedaydownhere?Maybeevenlonger—andthiseternalsnorkelinyour

mouth.God!

Inmysleep,IheartheSecondWatchOfficerclearhisthroat.Istrugglebacktoconsciousness,surface,andblinkhard.Rubmyeyeswiththeknuckleofmyindexfinger.Heavyhead.Lead inmyskull.Painsbehind theeyebrows—evenworsefartherbackinmyhead.ThesnoutedanimalintheothercornerisstilltheSecondWatchOfficer.Iwish Iknewwhat time it is.Mustbemidday.Mywatchwasagoodone.

Swiss.Seventy-fivemarks.Already lost it twice,butalways found itagain—amiracleeachtime.Wherecanitbelyingaroundnow?Andstill thisquiet!Nohummingofauxiliarymachinery.The samedeathly

silence.Thepotashcartridgeweighsonmystomachlikeamonstroushot-waterbottle.Nowand again amanwith oil-smeared hands and arms comes through the

compartment. Still something out of order back there? Hasn’t our positionimproved at all while I was asleep? Is there new hope? No one to ask.Secretivenesseverywhere.ButhowdoIknowthatthecompassisfunctioningagain—thewholesystem?

DidIhearsomethingwhileIwasdozing?Thehydroplaneisonlypartiallybackinservice,andhardtomove.ButthatwasalreadyknownbeforeIfellasleep.Howabout thewater?TheChiefhadaplan.Butdoeshestillbelieve in it?

Shouldn’thavegonetosleep:losttrackofeverything,includingtime.AtsomepointIheardtheCommandersay,“Wehavetosurfacethemomentit

getsdark.”Buthowlongisittillthen?Outrageousthatmywatchhasgone.I start looking for it, and discover that our straw dog has disappeared. No

longerhangingfromtheceiling.Norunderthetableeither.Iletmyselfslideout

ofthebunk,crawlthroughtherubberbootsandcansoffood,andfumbleaboutin the dark.Damnation, a splinter! TheChief’s pillow. Then hand towels andleather gloves, but no dog.However tatty, he’s our good-luck charm; he can’tjustdisappear.I’mabouttositdownagainwhenInoticetheSecondWatchOfficer.Hehas

thedog tuckedunderhis left arm;he’s clutching it thewaya child clutches adoll,andhe’sfastasleep.

Another man comes through, stepping carefully, a heavy tool in his oil-smearedhands. I’mashamed tobedoingnothing.Myonlycomfort is the factthat the SecondWatch Officer and the entire naval contingent are also doingnothing.Orderstoremainquiet,tosleep.Infact,wehavetheharderpart:sittinghere,lyinghere,staringstraightahead,havinghallucinations.This goddam snorkeling. Toomuch saliva inmymouth. Before, my gums

were as dry as leather, and now this overproduction. Salivary glands simplyaren’tdesignedforthiswayoflife.Onlytwoboatsoutofthreesurvivetheirfirstpatrol.That’stheruleofthumb

nowadays:Everythirdboatissunkalmostatonce.Seeninthislight,UAisoneof the luckyones.Shehasalready inflictedall sortsofdamage;she’sbled theTommieswhite,astheysoelegantlyputit.AndnowtheTommieshaveturnedthe tables on us. Another of those silly metaphors: “turn the tables”—“bleedthemwhite.”Someof themenon thebunksalready lookas if they’ddied in their sleep:

still, peaceful, theirnozzles in theirmouths.As for theoneswhoare lyingontheirbacks,allyou’dhavetodoisfoldtheirhands.Ihave tokeep talking tomyself.Toeverything there isaseason—even this

ordeal.Ishallputtheethroughthewringer,saiththeLord,andIshallripopenthyasstothetopmostvertebrasothathowlingandgnashingofteethshallprofittheenothing.Thereitisagain:fearthatrisesfromsomewherebetweenmyshoulderblades

upintomythroat,distendsmyribcage,graduallyfillsmywholebody.Evenmycock.Hangedmenoftenhave an erection.Ordoes that come from somethingelse?

TheCommanderoftheBismarckstillhadhisFührerinmindwhenthetimecametodie.Heevenputitinwordsandhaditdispatchedasaradiogram:“…tothelastshell…loyaltothedeathorsomesuchelevatingtext.TherewasamanafterourFirstWatchOfficer’sheart.We’re not verywell equipped for this sort of nonsense downhere.We can

certainlycomposenobletexts,butwecan’ttransmitthem.TheFührerwillhaveto dispensewith theUA’s lastwords. There isn’t even enough air to sing thenationalanthem.Good old Marfels, he’s had it already. It was a mistake to ship on the

Bismarck.Reallymakesyoulaugh.Marfels,thebadgecollector,stillshortofabattlemedal, so he had to step up and volunteer. Now his youngwidow canenjoythehardwareheleftbehind.What must it have been like after they got that torpedo in the rudder

mechanismandcouldonlyplowaroundincircles?ThesalvageshipsCastorandPolluxwereorderedoutfromBrest,butallthatwasleftoftheBismarckbythenhadbeenreducedtoscrapmetalandmincemeat.Dulceetdecorumestpropatria…ofallthecrap!I seek refuge frommy nightmares in Simone. I repeat her name silently…

once,twice,againandagain.Butthistimetheinvocationfails.AllatonceCharlotteappears insteadofSimone.Hergourd-shapedtits.The

wayshecouldswingthembackandforthwhenshewasonherhandsandknees.Nowotherpictures force theirwayupward. Inge inBerlin.The assistant at

Staff Headquarters. The room assigned by the station commandant. A Berlinroom, or rather a hall, really.Don’t put on the light: the blackout curtains aremissing. I touchher.Thighs spread, she letsme fall intoher. “Forgod’s sake,don’tstop!Goon!Don’tstop.Likethat!”Brigitte, with her taste for turbans. “J’aime Rambran… parce qu’il a son

style!”IttookmeawhiletorealizethatshemeantRembrandt.And thegirl fromMagdeburg,with theunwashedneck and freckles onher

nose!Thehalf-filledashtraywiththeusedcondom.Thegoddamsluttishnessofthese schoolgirl whores! Appetite gone. Instant complaints. “What’s wrongnow?D’youexpectmetowaittillhellfreezesover?Loosenup,willyou!”Andthen,“Slowdown—whaddayatryingtodo—bangmyfuckingheadoff?”Thecarouselkeeps spinning, and I see thevolunteerwith thehuge sagging

breastsgosailingby.Whenaskedwhyshediditfree,gratis,andfornothing,her

responsewas“showingtheflag.”Youcouldcrankherup,butnoneoftheusualtreatmentevergothergoing.Whatshewantedwasgymnastics—braceyourselfonhandsandtoesandgiveheralightningdemonstrationofsexualpush-ups.Ihaveaclearshotofapaneof frostedglass, the lowestof three inawhite

painteddoor.Aphantomface:theexiledhusbandonallfours,ostrich-likeintheconviction of his own invisibility. “Look at him—will you look at him! Mr.PeepingTomhimself!”Andnowthespinnerof fairy tales:kneesdrawnup,squattingon topofme

chatteringawayasifshehadnoideawhatwasgoingonunderneath.Didn’twantmetomove.Justplayedfiveyearsoldandtoldfairystories.WhereonearthdidIfindthatone?ThetwonakedwhoresintheshabbyParishotelroom.Idon’twanttolookat

them. Go away! I try to concentrate on Simone, but I can’t summon her up.InsteadIseeoneofthetwowhoreswashingherselfbetweenthelegs,sittingonthe bidet right under a bare lightbulb. Slack, pallid skin. The other one’s nobetter. She’s kept her stockings on and her grimy girdle.Gossiping away, shereachesintoabatteredshoppingbagandpullsouthalfapatheticallysmallrabbitthat’salreadybeenskinned.Wetnewspaperstickstoitindark-graypatches.Theneck is half severed.There aredark-red trickles of blood around the axmark.Thewhorewho’sstillonthebidetwithherfacetothewall,workingawaywithbothhandssplashingunderneathher,keepsscreechingeverytimeshebendsherhead back toward the bluishwhite body of the rabbit, which the other one isholdingouttoher.She’ssoexcitedoverthisprizethatshestartstosputterwithlaughter.Theonewiththerabbitinherhandhasredpubichair.Stickingnexttoit on her thigh there’s a piece of the damp newspaper the rabbit had beenwrapped in, as big as your hand. Her belly quivers as she laughs; the slackbreastswobbleinunison.IfeelasnauseatedasIdidthen.Ifwedon’tmoveasmuchasalittlefinger,theconsumptionofoxygenmust

fall to almost zero. Lying stretched out, motionless, not even blinking oureyelids,we shouldbe able tomakeour supplyholdoutmuch longer than theaveragesindicate.Ofcoursethemotionofthelungsinitselfusesupoxygen.So—breathevery

shallowly,inhaleonlyasmuchasthebodyneedsforitsbasicfunctions.Buttheoxygenwesaveherebystayingstillisbeingusedupbythemenwho

are exhausting themselves on thedamaged engines aft.They’re exploitingour

reserves.Suckingtheoxygenrightoutofourmouths.Nowandagainadullclangcomesfromastern.Eachtimeitmakesmejump:

Soundsaremagnifiedfivetimesinwater.They’recertainlydoingalltheycantoavoidnoise.Buthowcantheyworksilentlywiththoseheavytools?TheFirstWatchOfficer comes back from an inspection tour, From time to

timehe has tomake sure that all the sleepers still have their snorkels in theirmouths.Hisblondhair,wetwithsweat,isstucktohisforehead.AboutallIcanseeofhisfaceisthecheekbones—hiseyeslieinshadow.Ihaven’tseentheChiefforalongtime.Iwouldn’twanttobeinhisplace.It’s

toomuchresponsibilityforoneman.Let’shopehe’suptoit.TheOldMan appears on silent feet.He’s still six feet away from the table

whenthere’sanotherclangfromastern.Hegrimacesasthoughinsuddenpain.He’snotwearingapotashcartridge.“Well,howgoesit?”heasks,asthough

hedidn’tknowthatwiththenozzleinmymouthIcan’treply.Iliftmyshouldersslightlybywayofananswer, thenlet themfall.TheOldManglancesquicklyintotheforwardcompartmentthendisappearsagain.I’m ready todropwith exhaustion, but sleep is impossible. Images float up

like entries from a card index. The hairnet lady: hoity-toity Tante Bella, theChristianScientist,thehealerwho’dtakenadipinallthesacredwatersknowntoman.Shedida roaring trade.Thehairnets came inenormousbundles fromHong Kong. By the hundred gross. Tante Bella had elegant envelopes withtransparentwindowsandupliftingtextsprintedonthem,andthereshesatwiththree littleofficedrudges,allof themuntangling thehairnetsandputtingeachindividual one into its pale violet-colored envelope—which made the hairnetinstantlybecomefiftytimesmoreexpensivethanithadbeenamomentbefore.Tante Bella had a good dozen salesmen. Later I learned that she carried onexactly the same business with contraceptives—but all that happened late atnight. I picture her sitting there in dead earnest, in front of a pile of pale,rosecoloredcondomslikeamountainofsheep’sintestines,sortingoutthemesswithnimblefingersandslippingthemintotheirlittleenvelopes.FaberwasTanteBella’s narne—Bella Faber. Her son, Kurtchen, looked like a thirty-year-oldhamster. He was the head of the sales force. Hairdressers were his principalclients. Meanwhile, Uncle Erich, Tante Bella’s husband, installed automaticvending machines in the washrooms of rundown bars. “Three for onereichsmark.”UncleErichhadtohaveadrinkwitheverybarkeeperonhisroundstorefillthemachines.Thenbackontohisbicycle,oneshabbysaddlebagforthe

money and the other for the contraceptives; dismount, down another shot, outwiththetake,inwiththecondoms,downyetanothershot.Hecouldn’tkeepitupfor long,goodoldUncleErichwith thesilverbicycleclipsonhis trousers.He never removed them, not even indoors. One day he fell off his wheelsbetweenonevendingmachineandthenextandwasdonefor.Thepolicecartedhimoff.Theymusthavebeenflabbergastedattheloadsofcoinsandcondomstheyfoundinhisbags.AllatonceInoticethattheSecondWatchOfficer’sapparatushasfallenout

ofhismouth.Howlonghashebeenbreathingwithoutthesnorkel?WasIdeadto theworld awhile? I shakehis shoulderbut elicit nomore thana rumble. Ihavetopunchhimhardbeforehegivesastartandstaresatmewithhorror,asthough I were some grisly apparition. It takes a few seconds for him to pullhimselftogether,gropeforhissnorkel,andbegintosuckonit.Thenhe’sasleepagain.I’llneverunderstandhowhemanagesit.Ifonlyhewerepretending—butno,

hereallyisdeadtotheworldagain.Allthat’slackingisasnore.Ican’ttakemyeyes off his pale, relaxed baby face. Envy? Or am I just tormented by mydisappointment at not being able to communicatewith him even by glance orgesture?Ican’tstayhere.Mybodyisgoingtosleepofitsownaccord.Upandintothe

controlroom.Repairsarestillgoingonintheradioshack.Bothmatesareworkingbythe

lightofastrongbulbtheybroughtwiththemtoscrewintothesocket,andtheyaren’twearingsnorkels.Apparentlytheycan’tgetthetransmitterworking.It’sajob for a watchmaker. Probably the necessary replacement parts are lacking.“Can’tbedonewithavailablematerials,”IhearHerrmannsay.Alwaysthesamething:“Notwithavailablematerialsasiftheyhadanychoice.Theemergencybulbshedsanuglylightthatbarelypenetratesthethickair.It

doesn’t even reach thewalls,which are still indarkness.Three, four shadowyfiguresareworkingby the forwardwall,bentover likeminersat theendofagallery.Wedgedagainstthecharttablewithhisforearmsoutstretchedonit,theOldManisstaringfixedlyatthechart.Themachineshavebeenstrippeddown,and the parts are still strewn at random around the darkened room. Even thefloodingandbailingdistributorsareclutteredwithpiecesthatdon’tbelongthere.Probablypartsofthemainbilgepump.Inthebackgroundthebeamofapocketflashlightflitsoverthearmaturesandvalves.Icanjustmakeoutthepaleeyeof

themanometerinthegloom.Thepointerremainsatninehundred.IstareatitasifIcanhardlybelievemyowneyes.Noboathaseverbeenthisdeepbefore.It’s getting colder all the time. Certainly we’re not radiating much body

warmth,andheatisoutofthequestion.Wonderhowcolditisoutside?Plasteraltar:Gibraltar—plasteraltar.Now, thankgod, theChiefarrives.He’smovingwithhisusual suppleease.

Doesthatmeansomekindoftriumph?TheOldManturnstohimandhmmsandhahs.AshardasItry,allIhearisthatthebreacheshavebeensealed.NosignofsatisfactionfromtheOldMan.“Inanycase,wecan’tsurfacebeforedark.”TothisIcanonlynod.WhatI’dreallyliketotossinis“Howaboutafter?”I’mafraidthey’rebettingontheirhopesratherthanonrealities.Themanwhojustcamethroughthecontrolroomfromthesternhasdoubtless

heard what the Old Man said. It wouldn’t surprise me if the Old Man hadformulatedhissentencewith“surface”initjustforhim,sothathecannowgoforwardtoreport,“TheOldManjustsaidsomethingaboutsurfacing.”I’mstillnotclearinmyownmindhowmuchoftheOldMan’sconfidenceis

play-acting and how much conviction. In any case, whenever he thinks he’sunobserved,helooksyearsolder:amessofwrinkles,allhisfacemusclesslack,hisreddened,swolleneyeshalfclosed;atsuchmomentshiswholebodyspeaksresignation.Butnow thathisback’ssupported,heholdshimself straight,armsfoldedonhischest,headtiltedslightlybackward,sostillhemightbeposingforasculptor.Ican’tevenseewhetherhe’sbreathing.WithoutknowingexactlywhatI’mdoing,Iseemtohavesatdowninthering

oftheforwardhatch.Suddenly theOldMan’s face isbendingoverme.Hashesaidsomething?I

mustseemtotallydazedasIpullmyselftomyfeet,forheproducesacalming,“There,there.”Thenwithamotionofhisheadheurgesmetoaccompanyhimastern.“Havetoshowourfacesbackthereaswell.”Idigout the rubbermouthpiecewithmyfingers, swallowmysaliva, takea

breathofair,andsilentlyfollowtheOldMan.ForthefirsttimeInoticesomeonesittingonthechartchest:Turbo.Hisheadisfloppingsolooselyonhischestthathisbackbonemightaswellbebroken.Someoneiscomingtowardus:control-

roommateIsenberg.Staggeringlikeadrunk.Inhislefthandhehaslongmetalrodsandelectriccables,andinhisrightalargepipewrenchthathe’sintheactofhandingdowntosomeonecrouchingonthefloor.TheOldManhaltsatthelevelofthedesertedhydroplanestationandsurveys

the dismal scene. The control-room mate hasn’t yet noticed us. Suddenly,however, he looks round as he hears the splashing of my boots, and hestraightensup,triestostand,openshismouth,andthenshutsitagain.“Well, Isenberg?” says the OldMan. The control-roommate swallows but

doesn’tmakeasound.TheOldMantakesasidewayssteptowardhimandlayshisrighthandonhis

shoulder—just for a second; but Tin-ear Willie blossoms under it. He evenmanagesagratifiedgrin.TheOldMangives twoor threeshortnodsand thenmovesheavilyon.Iknowthat thecontrol-roommatewillnowbeexchangingglanceswithhis

menbehindourbacks.TheOldMan!He’salwaysmanaged…The floor plates are still up in the petty officers’ quarters. So they’re still

working on battery two, or giving it another go-around. A face streakedwithsweatandoilpopsuplikeanapparitionfromastagetrapdoor.ThewidebeardidentifieshimasPilgrim,theE-mate.Moredumbshow:fortwoorthreesecondstheOldManandPilgrimexchangeglances,thenPilgrimgrinsalloverhisfilthyface.TheOldManallowshimselfaquestioningnoise,thennods—andPilgrimnodsbackeagerly:Hetooiscomforted.It’shardtogetthroughaft.ThenimblePilgrimtriestopropupapieceofthe

floorplatefromunderneathsotherewillberoomforustoputourfeetdown.“Don’tbother,”saystheOldMan;likeamountainclimber,hisbellypressed

against thebunk railings,he traverses thenarrow footledge toward the stern. IacceptPilgrim’shelp.Thedoortothegalleyisstandingopen.Thegalleyitselfhasbeencleanedup.

“Excellent,”murmurstheOldMan.“JustasIexpected.”The next door, to the diesel room, is standing open too. Usually when the

diesels are running and sucking in air, you have to exert all your strength toovercomewhatisvirtuallyavacuuminthedieselroom.Butthepulsingheartoftheboatisdead.Weaklightfromhandlamps;oureyesquicklyadjust.Mygod,lookatit!The

duckboardshavebeenremoved,theshiningfloorplatestoo.ForthefirsttimeI

realizehowfardownthedieselsextend.BetweentheirbasesIcanmakeoutajumble of heavymachine parts—oil pans, tools, bushings.This is no longer amachineshopbutacannibalcave.Everythingdripswithblacklubricatingoil—thespilledblackbloodofmachines.Repulsivepoolsofithaveformedonallflatsurfaces.Bunchesofwaste lieabout.Everywhere tatteredrags,dirtypackings,bent pieces of pipe, asbestos boards blackwith fingermarks, greasy nuts andbolts.Whisperingvoices,thedullclangofatool.While Johann iswhisperingwith theOldMan, he goes onworkingwith a

gigantic wrench. I had no idea we had such heavy tools on board. Johann’smovementsarepreciselymeasured:nonervouserrors,nouncertainholds.“Beamwedgesintheleaksholdingfast!”Theword“beam”setsmeoffagain.Woodamidallthissteel?Beamdefenses

—that’snavalvocabulary.Whereelsearethere“beams”?Then I actually see them: square timbers—five by five. Driven tight with

wedgeslikethesupportingtimbersinmines:exactlythesamesystem.Thesheeramount of carpentry among all this steel and iron!Where has thewood beenstowed?I’veneverseentimberonboard.Whereon earth does Johannget his calmness from?Doeshe simply forget

thatwehaveninehundredfeetofwateroverourheads,andthattheoxygenwillsoonberunningout?TheOldManpeershereandthere.Hekneelsinordertoget closer to the people working below deck, contorted like fakirs. He sayshardlyaword,simplyhumsalittletohimselfandproduceshisusualdrawling“Well-l-l?”Butoutoftheirnarrowpitstheoil-smearedfaceslookattheOldManasifhe

were amiracleworker.Their faith inhis ability toget usout of heremust bewithoutlimit.Attheafterendofthestarboarddiesel,thelamplightrevealstwoorthreemen

hunched over in cramped positions at the base of the diesels; they’re cuttinglargegaskets.“Well,howdothingslookingeneral?”theOldManasksinahushedvoice,

but warmly, the way he would inquire after the health of their wives andchildren.He’sstandingproppedononeelbowforsupport;intheanglebetweenhisarm

andhisbody,IcatchsightoftheChief.“…ribsbrokenbythedozen,”Ihearhimwhisper.“…can’treallygetattheproblemanywhere!”

His face is thrown into exaggerated relief by one of the lamps. Extremeexhaustion has put greenish semi-circles under his eyes, which are burningfeverishly.Thelinesinhisfacehavedeepened.Heseemstohaveagedtenyearsovernight.Ican’tseehisbody,onlyhisfloodlitface.Igiveastartasthepale,bearded

head of John the Baptist speaks again. “Made a mess of the cooling-watersystemtoo.Prettyfairjobactually—soldered—starboarddiesel—HerrKaleun—seems tobe—completewipe-out—notwithavailablematerials—otherwise it’llgotopot—notbalanced—driveshaftbearings…”There’ssomethingorother,asfarasIcanmakeout,thatcanonlybeputright

by heavy hammering. The two of them agree that any work involving heavyhammeringisoutofthequestion.Againthevoicefrombelow.“Thankgod—that’shalfwayinworkingorder—

damnedhair-splitting—moreofajobforawatchmaker…”TheOldManorders, “Put everythingyou’vegot into it—it’ll be all right!”

Thenhe turns tomeas thoughhehadahighlyconfidential communication tomake, but what comes out is a stage whisper. “Good thing we’ve got a realspecialistcrewonboard!”Thewreckedmotorroomisashorrifyingasthedieselroom:it’snolongerour

sterile, clean, electricworkshopwith all themachine parts hidden under steelhoods.Thedisguiseshavebeentornaway,thefloorplatesremoved;theinnardslieexposed,naked.Heretooeverythingisamassofoilywaste,piecesofwood,tools.Wedges,cables,handlamps,awirenet.Andthere’sstillwaterdownthere.There’ssomethingobsceneaboutallthis;somethingthatlookslikerape.TheE-mateRademacherislyingonhisstomach,theveinsinhisneckbulgingwiththestrainashetriestotightenabasenutwithanenormouswrench.“Alotoffielddamage!”Isay.“Fielddamage:I like it,”says theOldMan.“Thepaymasterwillbearound

rightawaytohavealookatthetrampledlettuce,thenhe’lltakecareofourmeretrifleoutofhishippocket—avoidsbureaucracy!”Rademacherhearshisvoiceandstartstogetup,buttheOldManholdshim

down,thennodsandpusheshiscaptothebackofhishead.Rademachergrins.Idiscoveraclock:twelvenoon.SoImusthaveslept,offandon.Howcould

theclockhavesurvivedtheexplosion?Myeyesfallonanemptybottle.Thirst!

WhereintheworldcanIgetsomethingtodrink?HowlongisitsinceI’vehadanything?I’mnothungry:anemptybelly,butnohunger.Justthishellishthirst.There’s still a bottle—half full. But Imustn’tmake offwithRademacher’s

juice.TheOldManstandsstiffasapost,thinking,hiseyesfixedonthebreach-lock

ofthesterntorpedotube.Ishemakingarésumé?Finally he remembers me, jerks round, and murmurs, “Well, back we go

again.”Another pilgrim’s progress past the halt, the blind, the needy, and thedamned.Arepeatperformancetomakesuretheshow’smadeitsproperimpact.ButthistimetheOldManactsasif therewerenothingspecial tonotice;as

thougheverythingwereinorder.Acoupleofhall-nodshereandthere,andwe’rebackinthecontrolroom.Hestepsuptothecharttable.Oranges! Of course, we have oranges from theWeser. Two crates of them

wereputaboardinthebowcompartment—perfect,ripeoranges.December,thebest time for them.Mymouth is trying to water, but my throat is choked: asingle mass of mucus that has blocked my salivary glands completely. Butorangeswillclearallthataway.Noone in theQuarters.The techniciansare still aft.Thenavigatorwas last

seeninthecontrolroom.Butwherehasthebosungone?Itrytoopenthehatchtothebowcompartmentasquietlyaspossible.Feeble

light,asusual:asingleweakbulb. It takesmeagoodminute tomakeout thesceneinthegloom:menonbunks,meninhammocks;everyoneasleep.Menonthe floorplates too,almostup to thehatch;huddledclose together like trampstryingtokeeponeanotherwarm.There’ve never been so many of them together in the bow compartment.

Suddenly I realize that not only the men off watch but also the “lords” whowouldnormallybeondutynowareinhere—soit’sdoubleoccupancy.The beam of my flashlight moves over the bodies. The place looks like a

battlefield. Worse still, the aftermath of a gas attack: men lying in the half-darknessasifliterallybrokenandtwistedbypain,asiftheirmaskshadbeennoprotectionagainstsomenewgasintroducedbytheenemy.It’sreassuringtoheardeepbreathingandlittlesmotheredsnores.ProbablynoonewouldnoticeiftheChiefturnedofftheoxygensupply.They

wouldgoon justascalmly,dozingawaywith theirpigsnoutsover their faces

and their potash cartridges on their stomachs, Sleep, my little ones, sleep…Passedaway,dozingforVolkandFührer…Isn’tthatsomeonemovingoverthere,allhunchedover?Hacker,thetorpedo

mechanic.Steppingcautiouslyoverthebodiesasifhewerelookingforsomeoneinparticular.Hehastostayawaketoseetoitthatnooneletsthepigsnoutoutofhismouth.Ibegin tosearch for foot room. Ihave to forceawaybetween thesleeping

men, search out crevices, pushmy foot like a wedge between twisted bodieswhiletakingcarenottobecomeentangledinthenooseofasnorkeltube.Theorangesmustbestowedallthewayforwardbesidethefloorbreaches.I

gropearounduntilItouchfirstacrateandthenafruit,whichIrollandheftinmyhand.Igulp.Ican’tbeartowaitanylonger:standingtherejustasIam,bothfeet jammedbetween torsos,armsand legs, Idig thesnorkeloutofmymouthandplungemyteethintothethickrind.It’snottillmysecondbitethatIgettothefleshofthefruit.Suckingloudly,Iswallowthejuice.Alotofitrunsoutofthecornersofmymouthanddripsontothesleepingmen.Bliss!Ishouldhavethoughtofitlongago.Someonemovesbesidemyleftfoot;ahandseizesmycalf;Ijumpasthough

I’dbeengrabbedbyanoctopus. In thisdim light Ican’t seewho it is.A facerises: a grisly lemur with a trunk. Coming out of the half-darkness, the manscaresme to death. I still can’t recognize him:Schwalle orDufte? I stammer,“Damnedgoodoranges!”Butthere’snoanswer.Hacker,who’s stillpokingabout, comespast,pullsouthismouthpiece, and

growls,“Rottenacoustics.”Inthebeamofmyflashlight,longthreadsofspittlehangdownfromhischin.Dazzled,hecloseshiseyes.“Excuseme!”“I’mlookingforthecook,”hewhispers.Ipointtoadarkcornernearthehatch.Hackerwobbleshiswayovertwomen,bendsdown,andsaysinalowvoice,

“Comeon,up,up,Katter!Move.Themenasternwantsomethingtodrink.”

NothinghaschangedintheOfficers’Mess.TheSecondWatchOfficerisstillasleep in his corner. I pull out one of the tattered volumes from the shelf and

compelmyself to read.My eyes feel theirway along the lines.Theymove attheir accustomed pace from left to right, registering every syllable, everyindividual letter, butmeanwhilemy thoughts drift away; peculiar connectionstakeplaceinmybrain.Disparatetextsintrudethemselvesbetweenmyeyesandtheprintedpage:sunkenboats—whatbecomesofthem?DoestheshipwreckedU-boat armada come sailing home to harbor some day,washed in on the tidealongwiththemusselsandtheseaweed?Ordopeopleliehereforthenexttenthousand years preserved in somekind of salt-water alcohol?And if away iseventuallyfoundtosearchthebottomoftheseaandraisetheships?Howwillwelookthenifourboatiscutopenwithablowtorch?Actuallywewouldoffertherecoveryteamamarvelouslypeacefulpicture.In

othersunkenboatsitwouldcertainlylookworse,withthecrewprobablylockedtogether in chaos, or floating, bloated, between the diesel blocks. We are anexception.We’dbeinadryplace.Nooxygen,sonorust,andaboveandbeyondthat,onlythehighestqualityU-

boatmaterials.Thesalvagewouldcertainlypayforitself:Wehaveanyamountofvaluablemerchandiseonboard.Andourprovisionsarecertainlyedible.Onlythebananas,thepineapples,andtheorangeswouldbetoofargone.And as for ourselves? In general, how much do corpses decay without

oxygen?Whatbecomesof fifty-onebladders fullofurine,of thefricasseeandpotato salad in our intestines once the oxygen is all gone? Won’t thefermentation process stop too? Do U-boat corpses become stiff and dry likedriedcodfishorlikethebishopsthatoneseeshighabovePalermoinPianadegliAlbanesi?Theretheylie,underthealtarpictures,intheirglasscaskets,adornedwithbrocadedsilk,coloredglassstones,andpearls:hideousbutenduring.Thedifference is that the bishops had been disemboweled. But if it raineduninterruptedly for a coupleofdays, they stank just the same, asonlycodfishcanstink,throughtheirglasspanes.Ourship’sflycomes intomind. Isee theboatbeingraisedyearsfromnow,

covered with shaggy dark-green seaweed and thick clumps of mussels. Thetowerhatchisbrokenopenandoutswarmamillionfat,greasyflies.Closeupofmillions ofBattleship Potem kin maggots, swarming over the hatch rim. Andmillionsuponmillionsofcrablicecoveringthecorpsesofthecrewlikemange.

“Twilight!” I hear from the control room. What does that mean, morningtwilightoreveningtwilight?I’mtotallyconfused.Thewhisperingvoicescomecloser.TheOldManappears,andbehindhim,

theChief.TheChiefisreportingtotheOldMan.Heseemstohaveanewfoundsupply

ofstrength,likeaboxergettinghissecondwindafterbeingalmostcountedoutin theprevious round.Godknowshowhedoes it.Hehasn’thadonemomentaway from theSecondEngineerandhispeople.Nowheand theOldManaredrawingupakindofprovisionalaccount.Ihearthatthecompressorshavebeenrammedtightwithwoodenwedges.Thethumb-thickboltsthatfastenedthemtotheir base plates had been sheared off by the pressurewave of the explosion.Much depends on the compressors: they supply the air for blowing out thebuoyancytanks.Bothperiscopesaredefinitelyintheashcan.Forthetimebeingthere’snothingtobedonethere.Toocomplicated…IcanseethattheChiefisbeginningtoradiatehopeashemakeshisreport.Haveourchances improved? I stoppayingattention todetail.All Iwant to

knowiswhethertheChiefiscertainhecanforcethewateroutboardandfreetheboatfromthebottom.WhatdoIcareabouttheperiscope?Ihaveonlyonewish:togettothesurface.Godknowswhatcomesnext.Butfirstwehavetogetthere.Justgetthere.Not awordaboutbailing andoutboardpumping.Sowhat’s thepointof all

our other successful repairs if we can’t free ourselves from the bottom?Suddenly there are noises again, coming slowly closer. Unmistakable. Ship’spropellers.Louderandlouder.“Propellersoundsinalldirections!”What does thatmean—awhole convoy?TheOldMan rolls his eyes like a

tenantenragedbyabrawlintheapartmentoverhead.Ilookaroundhelplessly.Iamsuperfluous.Icanonlypressmyselffartherinto

mycorner.Everyboneinmybodyfeelstortured,tormented.Thatmustbefromswingingthebuckets:akindofviolentcharleyhorse.TheOldManboomsawayinhisusualvoice.Atfirstthisterrifiesme,thenI

understandthatwiththeuproaroverheadit’ssafetotalkaloud.Noonecanhearus.Andthefamiliarhoarsegrowlisacomfort.“Must be a tramc jam!” he says. The usual pretended indifference. But he

can’t foolme: I’ve seenhimsecretlymassaginghisbackwithbothhandsand

heardhimgroanashedoesso.Hemusthavelandedveryawkwardlywhenhefell,butsincethenhehasonlysnatchedtheoddfifteenminutesnowandagaintoliedown.The Chief isn’t taking the din as well as the Old Man. When the rumble

deepensoverhead, thewordsstickinhis throat,andhiseyesdart thiswayandthat.Noonesaysaword.Dumbshow.Iwishthewholethingwouldreachitsfinale,sothattheplayerscouldfinally

crossthefootlightswiththeireverydayfacesagain.Thepropellernoisestops.TheOldManlooksmestraightinthefaceandnods

insatisfaction,asthoughhehadbeentheonetocutthenoiseoff—justtopleaseme.TheChief takes a hasty gulp from the bottle of apple juice and disappears

again.I resolve to conquermy inhibitions and ask theOldMan straight out how

things stand, but at thatmoment he gets to his feet, grimacingwith pain, andplodsheavilytowardthestern.Afterawhile Ican thinkofnothingbetter todo thanfollowhim.PerhapsI

canlurehimintoconversationinthecontrolroom.Buthe’sdisappeared.Musthavegonefartherastern. Ihaveanastyfeeling thatsomething isall fouledupaft.Ishouldhavelistenedmorecarefully.Thefoginmybrainisgettingthicker.Thebestthingwouldbeformetorest

onmybunk.Amanhastosleepsometimes.Nopointinjustsittingaround.Imusthavefeltmywayintothepettyofficers’compartmentinatrance.Now

the trouble starts: I’ve had no practicewriggling intomy bunkwith a potashcartridge over my stomach; however, by dint of a kind of pole vault with acoupleofverypainfultwistsinit,Ifinallymanage.Nowtostartunbuttoningmyshirt, loosen my belt, unbutton the shirt further, all the way down, let mystomachswellasIbreathein,thenflattenagain—stretchout,exhale,liethereinakindofsheathwithmypotashcartridgeforahot-waterbottle;amummyonafuneralbier.Consciousness dissolves. Is it sleep, or another kind of oblivion? When I

cometoagain,it’s17.00.Ship’stime.IcantellfromIsenberg’swristwatch.Iremaininmybunk.Theborderlinebetweenwakingandsleepingdissolves

again.Adullboomingechoessomewhereinmymind.InsteadofgettingupItrytotakerefugeinsleep,butthenoisepersists.Eyesclosed,butawake,Ilisten.No

doubtaboutit:depthcharges.Tryingtoterrifyus?OraretheTommiesharryingsomeotherboat?Butitmustbebroaddaylightupthere.Noonewouldattemptabreakthroughindaylight.So?Aretheyonmaneuvers?Keepingtheirmenuptothemark?Istraintohear,trytolocatetherollingthunder.It’scascadingallaroundus.

Probablysmallunitsatworkpracticingencirclement.Nowit’squietagain.Ileanoutofmybunkandstareintothecontrolroom.The sound man reports propeller noises, several at once, from different

directions.Howcanthatbe—thesoundgearwassupposedtobeawreck.ThenIrememberatonepointthattheOldManhadanearphonepressedtohisheadasIwas squeezing past. So the sound gear is functioning again:We’ve got to thepointwherewecanpickupacousticalinformationabouttheenemy.Isthatsomekindofanadvantage?The oil leak! The currentmust have carried it so far away that nobody up

therecanworkoutwhereitcamefrom.Probably—crossfingers—therewasonegreat bubble, and thatwas that. Luckily, oil doesn’t float forever like cork. Itemulsifies and gradually disappears. Viscosity—isn’t that what they call it?Anotherwordtoaddtomycollectionofspellsandincantations.“Wemust be lying in a good spot,” I hear theOldMan say in the control

room.Well, that’s one way of looking at it: thank our lucky stars that we’rejammedintherocks;becausethey’vesavedusfromtheAsdic.“Goddammit,ifthatnoisedoesn’tstop,it’lldrivemecrazy!”Zeitlersuddenly

bursts out. Against orders: Zeitler’s supposed to keep his pig’s snout in hismouthandbequiet.Let’shopetheOldMandidn’thearhim.Zeitler’sleftarmishangingoutofthebunkoverthere.IfIsquinthard,Ican

make out hiswristwatch. 18.00 hours.No later? Losingmywatchwas a badomen. Must simply have fallen off my wrist. Perhaps it’s ticking awaysomewhere in the bilge. After all, it’s antimagnetic, waterproof, shockproof,stainless,madeinSwitzerland.ThenoseclipishurtingsomuchthatIhavetoloosenitforamoment.Christ,howitstinks!That’sthegasfromthebattery!No,notjustthegas.It

stinks of shit and urine, too—as if someone had had the trots in here. Didsomeone’ssphinctergowhilehewasasleep?Oristhereapissbucketstandingaroundsomewhere?

Piss: immediatelyIfeel thedesperatepressureinmyownbladder.Theurgesubsides,onlytobesucceededbyominousstomachcramps.Isqueezemythighstogether.What ifweallget the trots?Thecan isunusableat thesedepths—nogood trying to expel the stuff with compressed air. The stench is becomingalmostunbearable.Better to put the clip back on my nose and breathe through the rattling

cartridge!Luckythatnaturegaveusachoice:noseormouth.Icansimplyoptforbreathingbythesecondmethod;mercifullytherearenoolfactorynervesinmyjaws.TheLordofHeavenandEarthhadmoreforesightinkneadinghisclaythanthedesignersofourscowdid.Icancertainlyholdoutforawhilelonger.Stayflat,don’tmove,relaxyour

bellymuscles,thinkofsomethingelse,Anythingbutpissandshit.InthewhorehouseinBrestthesmellwasawful:sweat,perfume,sperm,piss,

andLysol—astomach-churningmixture—thesmelloflustgonerotten.EaudeJavel,theycalledthedisinfectant,andnoperfume,howeversweet,couldprevailagainstit.Noseclipswouldhavebeeninorderinthatplacetoo.Rue d’Aboukir!When a big ship put in, thewhores simply stayed on their

backs between tricks. No more squatting on the bidet, panties on, beingseductive, then panties off again: wornout cylinders of flesh with five dozendifferentpistonsworkingupanddowninthemdayafterday.Icanseethesteepalley:leprous,crumblingwalls,charredtimbersthrustinto

the air. A dead dog flattened on the broken pavement. Disgusting. A wholeswarm of blowflies swirling up from the squeezed-out entrails. Fragments oftarboard. Bizarre wreckage of tile roofs like huge pieces of layered nougat.Everysinglegarbagecanoverturned.Ratsinbroaddaylight.Everyotherhousedamaged by bombs; even the ones partially intact are abandoned. Woodenwindowshutterspileduplikebarricades.There’sbarelyafootpathbetweentheruinsandthegarbage.Besideawall, two sealords leaningagainst eachother, face to face. “Come

on,man,I’llpayforyourfuck.Youneedit.”They’re lined up at the bottomof the alley in front of the sanitation room.

Tworowsofstiffcocks.Everyonehastogothrough.Fromtimetotimethefatorderlyshoutsoutofthedoor,“Nextfive…andgetyourrocksofffast!You’veeachgotfiveminutes—andthat’sit!”

Idiotic grins. The bluejackets all have one hand in their trouser pocketsholding their balls or their cocks. And they almost all have a cigarette in theother:nerves.Amiserable shed.Allgrayand shabby.Only the sanitation room ispainted

white.Therest’slikegreasyoil—lightrancidyellow.Smellofsemenandsweat.There’snobar.Noteventhemostprimitivedecoration.Themadamonherwoodenthronehasanobscenepugdogpressedagainsther

bosom,rightinthemiddleofthecleavagebetweenhertwomassivetits.“Reallylookslikeafatass,”somebodyremarks.“Boy,wouldIliketofuckherthere!”The old harridan produces the bits of German she’s picked up. “No time.

Move,move,don’tbreakanything!”Aboveherthronehangsasignwithabrightlycoloredroosterandthelegend:

“Quandcecoqchantera,créditondonnera.”While each man is paying her, she tries to sell him one of her well-worn

collectionofphotographs.Someoneobjects.“Auntie,nobodyneedsinstructions.I’mreadytoshootasitis.They’llbehumpingtodaytillnothingcomesoutbutblueair.”Mattresssqueakingthroughthestainedwall.Ashrillnaggingvoice.“Comeon,sweetheart,putthemoneyrightthere.”AndIwassostunnedthatshespokeGerman!“Don’t looksodumb!Faisvite!Sure,you’re surprised!—Ihappen to come

fromAlsace!No—no—-d’youthinkIwanttobefired?Everyonehastopayinadvancehere,solet’sseeyourmoney,darling.Payingisalwaysworsewhenyouhavetodoitafterward.Comeon—andputalittleextraforLilyontop—you’regoingtolikeher.Haveyougotanotherfifty?Ifyoudo,there’resomepicturesIcould show you—”And from next door: “Come in, sweetie. God, talk aboutbaby-snatching.”Are they all fromAlsace? “Does your kindergarten have thedayofftoday?Thatallyoucanmanage?No—keepyourtrouserson.Andhurryup!”Atthebottomofthecouchastripofshabbyoilclothtogounderyourshoes:

takingthemoffhereisconsideredawasteoftime.“Man,thatwasquick.Well,that’sthat.”BehindascreenIhearherpissinginachamberpot.Noniceties.

Pale thighs.Wetpubichair.Sicklyfacestreakedwithpowder.Yellowteeth,one or two rotting and black. Breath reeking of Cognac. Red gash ofmouth.Whitish intestinal ropesofusedcondoms tangledup in thewastebasketbesidethebidet.Cursinginthecorridor.“Moneyback—toomuchbeer—Icannevergetitup.”Downstairsamanisprotestingagainsttheinjection.“Thenyouwon’tgetyourpaybookback!”“Listen,Ididn’tgobareback!”“Shutup.Everyonegetsashothere.”“Iguessyougetafreefuck,don’tyou?”“Justbecareful,man!”“Ohkissmyass!”Whatajob!Injectingcocksalldaylong!“There,you’redone.Here’syourpaybookback.Doubleprecaution:arubber

andashot.They’rerealsticklersforetiquetteintheNavy!”

The pressure in my bladder is driving me mad. Didn’t the bosun set outbuckets in the control room with a can of calcium chloride beside them? Istruggleupandmanagetogetthere,stiff-legged.Afterward,theChiefappears.Breathing heavily, he sits downbesideme and stays very still.Only his chestmoves. He purses his lips and inhales, which produces a whistle. He jumps,startledbythesound.I pluck the pig snout out of my mouth. “Chief, I still have some glucose

tablets.”TheChiefjerkshimselfbackintoreality.“Nothanks,butamouthfulofapplejuicewouldn’tbebad.”I push myself up quickly, work my way through the hatch, stagger to the

locker,andreachforthebottle.TheChiefputsittohismouthwithonehandbutthenhastousetheotherbecausethebottleisrattlingagainsthisteeth.Hetakeshuge gulps. A trickle runs over his lower lip and is caught in his beard. Hedoesn’tevenwipeitoff.ShallIaskhimhowthingsstand?Betternot.Fromthewayhelooks,itmight

bethelaststraw.

In thepettyofficers’compartment thecurtainsof thebunkson theportsideareopenbutthebunksaren’tempty.Theiroccupantslooklikecorpseslaidoutin their coffins. Zeitler, Ullmann, the Berliner, and Wichmann. Only the pigsnoutsdon’tbelong.Thebunksof the engine-roomcreware empty.So thedieselmates and the

motormatesarestillaft.Istretchoutonthenearestlowerbunk.The FirstWatch Officer appears. Looking officiously concerned, he makes

surethateveryonestillhashissnorkelinhismouth.AsIstareafterhimIrealizethatI’mdriftingofftosleepagain.WhenIcometo,IrecognizeFrenssen.Thewayhelooks,sittingthereatthe

table, completely exhausted, goes straight tomy heart.He has no snorkel.Ofcourse—themenwhohavetoworkintheengineroomcan’twearthisdamnfoolcontraption.Imakeanoiserollingover,andFrenssenslowlyturnshishead.Hestaresatmeblankly.Hisspinenolongerseemsabletosupporttheweightofhistorso.Insteadofproppinghimselfuponthetable,heletshisshoulderssagandhis arms dangle between his knees as though they had no joints but hung onstrings, like primitive marionettes. He seems to be doubly prone to normalgravity.Hismouthisopen;hisglassystareisterrifying.God,he’sgoingofftherails!WhoknowshowtheothersareholdingoutinthisfetidairifFrenssencannolongercarryon.Thisbullofaman—andhe’sasweakasafly.Fly?Where’sourfly?The thought of an underwater Christmas returns. If the men aft don’t get

finished,we’llstillbesittinghereonChristmasEve.There’llbeanexchangeofgifts.I’llcatchtheflyasmypresenttotheOldMan.Putit inanemptymatchbox,onewithaprettySpanishlabel,whichtheOldMancanholdagainsthisear,so that if thefly isbuzzing,hecan imagine that themotorsare runningagain.Brilliant!Andwe’llmaketheChiefclosehiseyesandlistentothelittleboxtoo.AndiftheOldManagrees,itcanevengotheroundsandtheycanalllistentoitforawholeminute—God’sgifttoourearsinallthissilence,anotherblessingtocelebratealongwiththebirthofourLord.I feelwretched,exhausted. I’d love to tellFrenssen,“I’ll just seewhere the

teais,”orsomesuchnonsense,butwiththesnorkelIcan’t.Hedoesn’tmoveaninch.Thetea!Thepotmustbeinthecontrolroom;ImusthaveseenitwhileIwas

inthere.

I get up painfully. Frenssen hardly raises his eyes. In the control room thefloor plates are still covered with water, so our worst problem hasn’t beenclearedup.NodoubttheChiefwillgetaroundtoit.Hehashisplan,ofcourse,butthesightofthisflood,andmybootssplashinginit,fillsmewithhorrorjustthesame.Thetea:Ilookaround,butthepot’snowheretobeseen.Idoknowwherethe

applejuiceis,however.Iclamberthroughthehatchandshuffletothelocker,geta bottle out, tear off its topon a hinge, andbring it toFrennsen.Dear god, ittakeshimlongenoughtorealizethatit’sforhim.Hecouldhavesparedhimselfthelookofdog-likegratitude—afterall,I’mnottheOldMan.Nothingmoretodobutgoonsittinghereconjuringuppictures.Glückstadt comes to mind. That helps: immediately I turn bitter. The

humiliations! Gluckstadt—Happy City. The name itself was pure mockery.That’s the way it always went: barracks, barrack rooms, barracks again. Firstfatigue duty and then the naval Mickey Mouse. Gluckstadt was the worst—nomenestomen—asuperstition.TheGreasySpoonrestaurantintown!—ithadadifferentname,ofcourse—

wherewe spent our evenings eating fried potatoes by the plateful becausewedidn’tgetenoughatcamp.Threeofushad to reportbecause theownerheardaboutournameforhiswretcheddump.Confinedtobarracks;assignedtoeternalMickey Mouse—the main thing was to yell at the top of your voice. Myspecialty: leading a detachment into open country, and telling the men todisappear into the dugouts for a quick game of cards while I stood aroundroaringordersover the landscape likeamaniac. Ienjoyed that—andeveryoneelsedidtoo.Iseemyself in thecutter,at theendofmystrength,clinging tomyoarand

almost tumbling from the thwart. The mean, coarse faces of the mates, whomadeakindofgameoutofpursuing,harassing,andbullyingusnewrecruits.Iseenow-whattheydidtoFlemming,poor,pathetic,nervousFlemming,whowashandedoverhelpless toacollectionofsadists inuniform. Intofatigues,outoffatigues!Rigginggearon,rigginggearoff.Dressuniformon,dressuniformoff,sportsoutfiton,sportsoutfitoff.“Moveit,moveit,youshitheads!”Fiveminuteslater:lockerinspection.PoorFlemmingnevercaughtup.Hebegantohavethewildlookofatrapped

rat. And if the bastards noticed someone who couldn’t defend himself, theyreallywenttotown.Onthedouble,threetimesaroundthebarracks,oncearound

crawling.Ahundredyards’rabbithop.Twentypush-ups.Upandoverthewallsontheassaultcourse.Andthenthespecialtreatsforallofus:topullthecutteratfullspeedintothe

slimeandthenworkitlooseagain,floatitfree—butonlybyhaulingontheoars,pullinginrhythmonthemforhoursatatimeuntiltherewasclearwaterunderthecutter.PoorFlemmingdidn’t,couldn’t,holdout.Oneeveninghewasmissingatrollcall.Themutilated corpsewaswashed up in the harbor, among the old fenders,

bottles,piecesofwood,andpuddlesoflubricatingoil.It was a straight case of murder. Systematically harassed to death. He’d

drownedhimselfindesperation,eventhoughhecouldswim.Hiscorpsewasn’tapretty sight: It had got caught in the propellers of a steamer. I had to go toHamburgtothehearing.Nowthatit’sgonethisfar,Ithoughttomyself,theshitwill really hit the fan. But what happened? His dear relatives, fine Hamburgshipowners, found the idea of suicide unpalatable. So they stuck to theNavyversion:accidentaldeathinthecourseofduty!ForVolk,Führer,andVaterland.In loyal performance of his duty.Apparently they couldn’t bear to forego thethreesalvosover thegrave,sowefiredour riflesoverFlemming’shole in theground.Salute—raiserifles—fire.Andthenagain.Andagain.Noonewasevenallowedtosmile.AndtheninFrance:thewayIwrenchedthepistolawayfromObermeier,the

radioannouncer,whenhewasgoingtoshoothimselfonthebeachinfrontofourrequisitionedvilla.Whatafarce,justbecausehe’dhadanaffairinPariswithalady who turned out to be half Jewish. Asshole Obermeier behaving like amadman, roaring, “I amaNationalSocialist!Givememypistol, givememypistolback!”Itwouldn’thavetakenmuchformetodohimthefavor.Ibegintochoke.Mymouthisswollenfull; it tastesasbitterasgall.Ican’t

stand the snorkel any longer. My mouth ejects it almost involuntarily. Salivadribblesontomyshirt.Istudyitintently.Ineedadrink.Frenssenwon’tholditagainstmeifIreachforhisbottle.What thehell’s that?Mywristwatch lyingon the table!Whoput it there? I

reachforit,feelasifmyChristmashascomeearly.Thesweepsecondhandisstillhurryingaroundthedial.Agoodwatch.Itsaysalittleafter20.00.

Whichmeanswe’vealreadybeendownherealmost twenty-fourhours.TheCommanderwantedtotrysurfacingwhenitgotdark.20.00—thenitmusthavebeenpitchblackupthereforalongtime.Atthistimeofyear.ButwhydidtheCommanderaskthenavigatorwhenthemoonset?I’mnotmixingthisup.TheOldManaskedtwice,afterall—justacoupleofhoursago.Butwasn’t thereanewmoonashorttimeago?Thatmeansalmostnolightatall,letalonesetting.So what? The usual dilemma: no one to ask—neither the Old Man nor thenavigator.Apparentlyitwillonlybereallydarksomewherearoundfoura.m.Thatwouldmeanthewholenighttogo.Anotherwholenight—unendurable.

Theoxygenwon’tlastthatlong.Andwhataboutthepotashcartridges?Restlessnessforcesmetomove.IheadfortheOfficers’Messinatrance.My

place on the Chief’s bunk is unoccupied. The Second Watch Officer hasdisappeared.Thisdayseemstohavelastedahundredhoursalready.I don’t know how long I’ve been dozing in the corner of the bunkwhen I

wakeupandrecognizetheOldManinthegangwaytotheOfficers’Mess.He’ssupportinghimselfwithbothhandsas thoughwewere inasurfacevessel inaheavysea.Hemusthavecomeoutofhiscubbyhole.Feeblyheletshimselfontothe Chief’s bunk beside me. He looks gray and exhausted, seems completelyunaware of me, absentminded. For a good five minutes he doesn’t utter asyllable.ThenIhearhimmutter,“I’msorry.”Isitthereasifturnedtostone.“I’msorry.”Thewordsechoinmyhead.Two words, and the Commander has stamped out all hope. The renewed

clutchoffear.Nohope.That’swhatitmustmean.Dreamexploded.Afewmorecharades,somestiffupperlip…andthat’sit.Thewholeexercise,allourefforts—nothingbutbullshit.Iknewit:We’llbestuckheretillJudgmentDay.Wemight still have had a chance to swim for it.Overboard as soon aswe

surfaced.Butnow—whatnow?Slowlyfallasleepastheoxygengivesout?ItakethesnorkeloutofmymouthalthoughIdon’twanttotalk.Myhandsdo

itautomatically.Intelligenthandsthatsaytothemselves:What’sthepoint?Whythissnorkelingifthere’snochanceleft?Threadsofsalivadripfrommymouth,growlongerandlonger.LiketrumpetersemptyingtheirU-shapedmouthpieces.I turn to lookdirectly at theOldMan.His face is a lifelessmask. I have a

feelingthatIcouldpeelthemaskaway,butthenIknowforcertainthatIwouldhave to look at raw flesh and sinews, like a picture from an anatomy book:

sphericaleyeballs,bluishwhite;branchingfibers;narrowtubesandveins;bandsofmuscle.HavetheOldMan’sexertionsfinallydonehimin?Itcan’tpossiblybetrue!

“I’msorry.”Hecan’thavemeantitseriously.Hedoesn’tmoveaninch.Ican’tcatchhiseyebecausehe’sstaringdownat

thefloorinfrontofhim.Fearoftheemptinessinmyhead.Idon’tdaregotopiecesnow.Mustn’tlet

myselfgo.Keepaneyeonmyselfanddon’tlettheOldManoutofmysight.Nodoubtaboutit:He’sallin.Whyelsewouldhesaysomethinglikethat?Perhaps everything is starting to work for us, only the Old Man doesn’t

realize it.What can I do?Tell him that everythingwill still turnout all right?Thatwhentheneedisgreatest,theLordisnigh?Revolt. No! His two-word judgment can’t take awaymy secret knowledge

thatI’mgoingtoescape.Nothingcanhappentome.Iamtaboo.Throughmethewholeboatisimmune.Butdoubtsetsinagain.I’drealizeditbefore—onlynotadmittedit:It’sdark

upthere,hasbeenforhours,andweweregoingtosurfaceatdark.Soweshouldhavetriedlongago.Allthattalkaboutthemoon—nothingbutpretext.The Old Man continues to sit there motionless as though all the life had

drainedoutofhim.Noteventheblinkofaneye.I’veneverseenhimthiswaybefore…Itrytoshakeoffthestranglehold,trytoswallow,trytochokedownmyfear.Atappingsound.Istareintotheaisle.TherestandstheChief,supportinghimselfleftandright

against thewalls thewaytheOldManjustdid.I try toreadhisface.Buthe’sstandinginsemi-darkness,andhisfaceremainsablur.Whywon’thecomeintothelamplight?Haseveryoneheregonemad?Why

doesn’t he sit downwith us at the table?Surely not because his shirt is torn?Becausehisarmsaresmearedallthewayupwithfilth?Hismouthisopen.Probablywantstomakeareport.WaitingfortheOldMan

tolookup.Finallyhemoveshislipsandtakeshishandscautiouslyawayfromthewalls.Mustwanthisgestures tounderlinewhathehas tosay.But theOldMankeepshisheaddown.Probablyhasn’tnoticedhimstandingsixfeetawayinthegangway.

I’mabouttogivehimapushtobringhimoutofhistrance,whentheChiefclearshis throat and theOldMan liftshis eyes irritably. Instantly theChief istalking. “Respectfully report to Herr Kaleun—E-motors ready—water takenaboardhasbeenpumpedintoregulatorcells—possibletoexpelitoutboardwithcompressedair—compasssystemready—echosounderready…”TheChief falters.His voice is hoarse. From now on I hear nothing but an

endlessecho.“Ready…ready…ready…”“Good,Chief.Good,good!”stutterstheOldMan.“Justgetsomerestnow!”I stagger tomy feet tomake room for theChief. But he stammers “…still

some problems—still a couple—to clear up,” and takes two steps backwardbefore executing a kind of aboutface.He’s going to fall over anyminute.Nolongerhasthestrengthofaninsect.Onepuff,andyoucouldblowhimover.TheOldMan has his elbows braced on the table and half his lower lip is

betweenhisteeth.Whydoesn’thesaysomething?Finallyhe letsgoandblowsouthard. “Goodmen—simplyhave tohave—

goodmen!”Helaysthepalmsofbothhandsonthetable,shiftshisweightforward,and

pusheshimselfheavilytohisfeet,thensqueezeshiswayslowlypast,hitcheshisbeltupinthegangway,andsetsofftowardthesternwobblinglikeadrunk.Isittherestunned,holdingmymouthpieceinmylapwithbothhands.DidI

just dream all that? But theOldMan really has vanished.Where to?Hewassitting here just a moment ago… “I’m sorry.” And then “…ready… ready…ready!”Where iseveryone?I’mabout toshoutwhenIhearvoices fromthecontrol

room.“…goingtotry!…havetoseeifit’llwork!”—“Whend’youthinkyou’llbemoreor lessready?”That’s theOldMan’svoice.Andit’ssoundingurgent.“Haven’tmuchtimeleft.”Myhead’sspinningagain.WhatamIdoingstillsittingaroundhere?Ireplace

myrubbermouthpiece.I’mwobblytoo:Icanhardlygettomyfeet.Ateachstepitfeelsasifsomeone’shittingmeinthebackoftheknees.Inthecontrolroom,theOldMan,theChief,andthenavigator,allwiththeir

headstogether.Atightlittlegrouparoundthecharttable.The usual mocking voice starts whispering in my ear: here we go again,

stretchingouttheaction,spinningoutthescene,milkingitforeverythingit’sgot

—arealcrowdpleaser—thegroupofconspiratorsandtheirmuffledwhispers—alwaysworks.ThenInotice:nomorewaterinthecontrolroom.Dryfeet.Misseditbefore.

Blackouts.AmIactuallyinmyrightmindnow?I hear the Old Man ask in a hushed voice, “What’s it like up there now,

navigator?”“Beendarkforsomehours,HerrKaleun!”TheOldManobviouslyhashimselfundercontrolagain.And thenavigator

knewtheanswer.Nothingconfuseshim,he’srightontheball.The control-room mate is fiddling about among the flooding and bailing

distributors. I can see that he’s straining to hear. He can’t catch completesentences either, but such fragments as we manage to pick up are sufficienttidingsofsalvation. I’mjustsurprised that Idon’tgo topiecesandfall flatonmyface.“The one chance—all right!” mutters the Old Man. Then he looks at his

watch,pauses,andhisvoiceissteady.“Intenminuteswetakeherup!”Itcomesoutlikeanycasualannouncement.“We take her up.” The four words repeat themselves in my brain like a

mantra. I take the rubber mouthpiece out of my mouth again. The thread ofsalivabreaksandthenformsagain.“I’msorry…”“Wetakeherup”!—it’senoughtodriveyoumad.IclimbbackintotheOfficers’Mess.TheSecondWatchOfficerislyinginhis

bunk.“Hey,SecondWatchOfficer!” Idon’t recognizemyownvoice.Somewhere

betweenacroakandasob.Hebarelymoves.Itryasecondtime.“Hey!”Thistimeitsoundsabitbetter.Hefeelswithbothhandsforthetubeofhismouthpiece,claspsitlikeababy

withitsbottle.Heobviouslydoesn’twanttowakeup.Doesn’twanttolosethesafetyofsleep,wantstoholdontothisbarrierbetweenhimandinsanity.Ihavetoseizehimbythearmandshakehim.“Hey,buddy,wakeup!”Hiseyesopenforasecond,buthestillrefusestobewakened.Hetriestoget

awayfromme,toretreatintounconsciousness.

“Wesurfaceintenminutes!”Iwhisperclosetohisface.Heblinksdistrustfullybuttakesthesnorkeloutofhismouth.“What?”heasks,bewildered.“We’regoingtosurface!”“Whatdidyousay?”“Yes,intenminutes!”“Honest?”“Yes,theCommander…”He doesn’t leap to his feet.Not even a look of joy on his face.He simply

leansbackandcloseshiseyesagain foramoment—butnowhe’s smiling.Helookslikesomeonewhoknowsthatasurprisepartyisbeingarrangedforhim—andwhowasn’tsupposedtohavefoundoutaboutityet.

XIRETURNVOYAGE

“Preparetosurface!”Theorderechoesthroughtheboat.TheCommander:“FirstWatchOfficerandnavigatoraftermetothebridge!”In thecontrol room theFirstWatchOfficerand thenavigatorpickout their

oilskins, climb into their trousers, staggering as thoughwewere rocking in aheavy sea, and pull their stiff jackets over their heads. They avoid looking ateach other. Set faces, like hairdressers’ dummies. The navigator seems to bedemonstrating an exercise: He puts his sou’wester on very slowly—like adrillmaster,takinghistime.Hefastensthestringsunderhischinwithdeliberatecare.I realize for the first time what it is that I’m breathing—a stinking vapor

suspended indense layers throughout theboat,sourandsuffocating.Mylungsheaveastheytrytofilterenoughoxygenoutofit.Willtheboatreallycomeclear?Andifshedoes,whatthen?In answer to this unspoken question, the OldMan orders: “Prepare escape

gear!”Sothat’stheidea:up,overboard,andswimforit.Inthedark?Inthatracing

current?Myfilm!Ihurry tomybunk.Everything’s lyingready, theescapegearand

thefilmwrappedinawaterproofpackage,arrangedsothatIcanhangitaroundmyneck.There’salsoamoredeep-seatedfearinme—worsethanthatofthedarkness

and the current—enemy fire. If the fingering searchlight from one of theircorvettesfindsus,wemightaswellbelyingcenterstagewithallthelightsup.Thenmore searchlightswill beadded, and theheavenswillbe festoonedwithstarshells.GoddamChristmastrees!Andthenthemachinegunswillcutloose.But of coursewemight be lucky.The craziest things happen:Perhaps they

won’tfindusrightaway.Butifwe’reinthewaterandtheymissusatthatpoint,we’llbesweptawayanyhow.

Distress lights! We have no distress blinkers. The Tommies are betterequipped;they’reallpreparedtogooverboard.Butasituationlikeourshadnoplace in our leaders’ calculations. The escape gear’s our only equipment fordisasteratsea.I’mnotverygoodatputtingmineon.Nopractice.NeverthoughtI’dhaveto

use the thing.Frenssenhelpsme.Tentatively I insert themouthpiece.Anothersnorkel.Noendtothem.CautiouslyIturnontheoxygentankandhearithiss.Good:seemstobeworking.Suddenly there is whispering and movement all around, and the terror

subsides.Everyone’swearinghisescapegear,fumblingaroundwithit,pretendingtobe

franticallybusy,justtokeepfromhavingtolookup.I catch the Second Watch Officer’s eye. Trying to look calm but not

succeeding.Hemakesafacetoconcealhisemotion.The razor’s edge: The Chief will release the compressed air, and we’ll

discoverwhetherblowingtheregulatorcellsandfillingthebuoyancycellswillprovideenoughlifttofreeusfromthebottom.Westilldon’tknowwhethertheexhaustvalvesofthebuoyancytankswillremainairtight.Wehaveonlyoneshotatit.Therewillbenosecondchance.InaclearvoicetheCommanderorders:“Blow!”Thecontrolroommateturns

hisvalves.Thecompressedairhissesintothetanks.Willitforcethewaterout?Westandthererigid,listening.Istheboatmoving?IflexmykneessothatIcandetecttheslightestmotion.Nothing!Heldfast.Heavyaslead!Thecompressedairblowsandblows.Nothing!Abandonhope,allyewho…thewholething’sbeeninvain!Mylegsstartto

wobble…But.Theboat definitelymoved!Andnow there’s a scraping contact on the

outsideliketheimpactofAsdicbeams.Ascreech,shrillasaknifeonporcelain,runsthroughmetothebone,andtheneedleofthedepthmanometertrembles.There’saclearlyperceptiblejerkandtheboatfreesitselffromthebottom.It

scrapesgroaningalongareef.Morescreechingandyowling.Andthen—silence.I’mchokingwithjoy.

Iholdfasttothetowerhatchladder,myeyesfixedontheneedle.Forgod’ssake,keeponwobbling. I hypnotize it. It jerks three or fourmarks backward.The boat is floating, rising—under its own momentum—like a free balloon.We’reactuallybuoyant.I stare over the Commander’s shoulder at the manometer needle. As does

everyone else. Very slowly it creeps back over the dial. Nomovement in thecontrolroom.Notaword.Theneedleturnswithagonizingslowness.Iwanttotakemyhandandpush

thethingbackward,asifthatcouldkeeptheboatrising.“Eighthundredfeet!”saystheChief,asifwedidn’tallknowalready.“Seventwenty-five!—Sixfifty!—Sixhundred!”Periscope observation is out. Both periscopeswrecked. So theCommander

won’tevenbeabletomakesurewhetherit’sallclearornot.Iquicklypushthisthoughtasideandconcentrateonthedepthmanometeragain.Theboatisslowlycontinuingtorise.“Fivehundredfifty!”TheCommander is already under the towerwhen the indicator reaches the

fourhundredmark.Theminutesstretchoutlikeslackelastic.Westandaroundstiffly.Idon’tevendareshiftmyweightfromonefoottothe

other.Withhisescapegearonoverhisfur-linedvest,theOldManlookslikeafreak.Whentheneedlereachestwohundred,heordersthelightsinthecontrolroom

shaded.Allthat’sleftisthepaletwilightthatcomesinfrombothsidesthroughtheopenhatches,hardlyenoughtoenableustodistinguishsilhouettes.We rise as slowly as an elevator being cranked up by hand after a power

failure. Now I do shift from foot to foot. Slowly, cautiously. So no one willnotice.Thesoundgearisinaction:Herrmann.Hemustbegettingamassofbearings;

he’ll only report if something is quite close. But there’s nothing. Apparentlywe’reinluck.“Seventyfeet—fiftyfeet!”The water in the Papenberg column is already sinking. The Commander

clambersheavilyuptheladder.

“Towerhatchfree!”theChiefreports.Iswallow.Therearetearsinmyeyes.Theboatbeginstomove,rockinggentlybackandforth.Andthenaslapping

noise:Tschjwumm—tschjwumm!Awavehittingtheside.Noweverythingspeedsup,asusual.TheChiefreports,“Boat’sclear!”And

theOldManshoutsdown,“Equalizepressure!”Asharpbang.Thetowerhatchhassprungopen.Sotheequalizationwasnot

complete.Theairfallsdownonusinasolidmass.Mylungsfillpainfully,thentheystop—theoxygenistoorichforthem.Istagger.Thepainliterallyforcesmetomyknees.Forgod’ssake,what’sgoingonupthere?Theglareofparachuteflares?Has

theOldManseensomething?Whynoorders?Theboatrocksgentlybackandforth.Ihearthesplashingofsmallwaves.The

boatresoundslikeagong.FinallytheOldMan’sbassvoice.“Preparetoblow!”Still darkness in the circle of the hatch. “Stand by to ventilate!”And then,

“Dieselroom,remainreadytodive!”Dieselroomreadytodive?Butthisgulpofairbelongstome.Andthisone

too.Wet,dark,nightair!Iexpandmyribcage,breathemyfill.Againthesplashingofthewaves:aKyrieeleison.IcouldhugtheChief.Then from above, “Ready with the diesel!” I pass on the order, shouting

louderthanIhaveto.Thecallgoesfrommouthtomouthtotheengineroom.Theescapegasdoors

for the working diesel, the compressed-air cylinders, the test valves are nowbeingopened;they’refindingoutwhetherthedieselhastakenwater,andputtingitingearonthedrivingshaft.Theengineroomreportsready—andit’stheOldManagain.“Portdieselhalf

speed ahead!” The helmsman in the tower echoes the command; I shout ittowardthestern.Theblowerssnarl.Thefirstshakingpulserunsthroughourframe.Thediesel sucks fresh air down into theboat in greatwaves.All thedoors

standopensothatitcanreachintoeverycorner.Thenoiseenvelopsme.Iwanttoblockmyears.Theymustbeabletohearus

fromAfricatoSpain.Andthewholeareamustbecrawlingwithlookouts.But

what’stheOldMantodo?Wehavenochoice.Wecan’ttiptoe.IfonlyIknewwhatitlookedlikeupthere!TheOldManorders thenavigator to thebridge.TheFirstWatchOfficer is

besideme,alsostaringupward.He’sholdingontoarungoftheladderwithhisrighthand,Iwithmyleft.Mymirrorimage.Three, four orders to the helmsman in quick succession—then a counter-

order.“Belayharda-port!Continuetosteertwohundredfiftydegrees!”The helmsman no longer acknowledges the orders properly; he’s getting

muddled.Butthere’snorebuke.“Well, well, well!” is all I hear from the Commander; the last “well” long

drawnout.Not exactly a superfluityof information, but enough to tell us thatwe’vejustmissedhittingsomething.Clench your teeth. Hope the Old Man knows what he’s doing. He’s had

practice, after all: mocking the enemy, flitting about right under their noses,showingthemournarrowsilhouette,alwaysstayingagainstadarkbackground,alwaysaccordingtotherulesofthegame.The First Watch Officer sniffs hard, then breathes through his wide-open

mouth.Hemightatleastsaysomething.Followinghisruleswe’dhavebeenupthe creek. What the Old Man’s doing isn’t something you learn in trainingcourses. He got us in this far on our quiet motors; now he has to use oneracketing diesel and sneak us out again. The breakthrough into theMediterraneanhasfailed.Iseemtobesnifflingtoo.We’veallcaughtcoldalittle.Iputmyleftfooton

thelowestrung,usingit likeabarrail.TheFirstWatchOfficerdoes thesamewithhisright.Oncemorethenavigator’svoice is toolow.Ican’tcatchmorethanhalfhis

reports.“Object…degrees!—objectbearingthirty—edgingourway—”“SeemstobeasmuchtraffichereasontheWannsee,”frombehindme.The

SecondWatchOfficer!Ourbaby!Hecanplayastoughashelikes,buthecan’tfool me. I’ll always see him crouched in the corner of the bunk: out for thecount,thestrawdoginhisarms.He’smovedveryclose:Icanhearhimbreathing.Acrowdseemstobecollectinginthecontrolroom.Understandablethatthe

off-duty watch no longer feels like staying in their quarters. Too remote.Everyonewhocanfindanexcusetobeclosetothetowerishere.Fortunatelyno

onenoticestheminthedarkness.DespitetheroarofthedieselIcanclearlyhearthehissingofcompressedairfromoneofthelittlesteelcylindersintheescapegear—andanotherone.Twomenatleastarenowinpositiontogooverboard.Myheartbeatsinmythroat.Supposingtheyspotus—wecan’tdive.Abewilderingseriesoforderstothehelmsman:“Port—starboard—midships

—asshegoes—harda-port—”TheOldMan’smakingtheboatweavealonglikeasnake.Ican’tbelievethatwe’restillundetected—thattheTommieshaven’traiseda

generalalarm, thatwe’renotbeingattackedonallsidesbyeverything they’vegot.Someonemusthaveheardusorseenus.Theycan’tallbeasleep.Orcanthenoiseofthedieselactuallybeprotectingus?DothemenonlookouttakeusforaBritish boat? But Tommy boats have different towers. Yes, I tell myself, thatmaybetrue,seenfromtheside,butfromthefrontwithasmallsilhouette,therecertainlycan’tbemuchdifference.Again the short sharphiss of anoxygen tank in the safety gear. If onlywe

don’thavetogooverboard.Andifthere’sanotherairplane?But that, after all, was no routine flight. We’d been reported. They could

figureourcoursebydeadreckoningandbereadyattherighttime.Butnothinghasbeenreportedtoday.Sotheplaneswillremaingrounded.TheSecondWatchOfficerclearshis throat.Hisvoice is squeaky.“Firstwe

havetogetfarenoughwestward,Iimagine.”TheOldManissilentforagoodfiveminutes.Ivisualizethechart:Yes,make

a large arc toward the west in order to avoid the traffic around Cape SaintVincent.IfonlyIwereallowedontothebridge!TOSEE!Theskyseemstosympathize:Thecloudcoveropensandafewstarsappear.

Theymove in the circle of thehatch from right to left, left to right. Iwonderwhattheirnamesare.Thenavigatorwouldknow.Buthe’sabove.“Porttwenty—newcoursetwohundredseventydegrees!”Aminute,thenthehelmsmanreports,“Twohundredseventydegreesitis.”“Ship’stime?”theCommandercallsdown.“21.30hours!”thehelmsmananswersfromthetower.So,aboutanhoursincewesurfaced.Whatspeedcanwemakeononediesel?

Idon’tevenknowexactlyhowfastit’srunning.WithtwodieselsIwouldbeable to tell from the sound.But I’vehadnopracticededucingour speed fromjustone.Andwe’rechargingwiththedynamoaswerun.Weneedallthepowerwecanget.Withanyluck,ourremainingbatterycellswillstoreenoughtogetusthrough tomorrow. It’s obvious,without anyone actually having to say it, thatwe’llhavetogiveuprunningonthesurfacebyfirstlight.TheChiefwillhavetokeepusgoingatperiscopedepth,andhopeforthebest.Finallyafewfragmentsfromabove.“…well-l-l,navigator,he’sgoingaway.

I’msureofit.Justkeepaneyeonthatapproachingvessel.Wayoff—butnastyjustthesame.”AfterfiveminutestheCommanderasks,“What’sourcourse?”“Twohundredseventydegrees!”“Steadyasshegoes!”“Howmanymileswillwemakebefore itgets light?” Iask theFirstWatch

Officer.Hesnorts.“Maybetwenty.”“Runningquitewell.”“Yes,seemstobe.”Ifeelahandonmyupperarm,andjump.“Howdoesitlooknow?”askstheChief.“SomedayI’llgrabyouinthedarktoo!”Iblurtout.“Satisfactoryisthewayit

looks—asfarasIcantell.”“Pardonme,yourworship!”saystheChief.“Andhowarethingswithyou,Chief?”“Thanksforasking.Commeci,commeça!”“Anexhaustivereport!”“Justwantedtogetabitofair,”heexplainsanddisappearsagain.“Seemswe’renotwelcomewiththeMacaronis,”Ihearbehindme.Thatmust

havebeenIsenberg.He’sright:LaSpezia!I’dforgottenallaboutourintentiontogothere.ThebeautifulblueMediterranean.NowRommelwillhavetofigureoutawayofgettinghissuppliesacrosswithoutus.Afterall,we’reanAtlanticboat.It’suptotheItalianstolookoutforMediterraneanconvoys.Arewetheonlyboat?Orwerethereotherstheyweretryingtoflogthrough?

Ifwesucceedingettingfarenoughwest—whatthen?Onedayunderwater,atperiscopedepth,isallverywell.Butafterthat?Wecan’tdive.Theboatwon’tstandmore than periscope depth. Is our transmitterworking?There’s been notalkofsignaling.HowmanymilestothenextFrenchport?OrwilltheOldManparkourdemolishedscowatVigoagainandroute-marchushomethroughSpain—thewholecrewthistime?Iftheweathergetsworse,howarewegoingtogetthroughBiscay?Asitis,

daylight travel isoutof thequestion.Wecanno longereludeanairplane,andBiscay is teemingwith them.Proceedatnightand remain submergedbyday?Granted,thenightsarelong,butwillitwork?“Holdit…steadyasshegoes!”Ihearfromabove,TheOldManhaschangedcourse.He’sheadingfarthersouth.Theoldgame:

he thinks the Tommies think—may think—that if more boats try to breakthrough,they’lldoitbytheshortestroute.Whichistosaythatifthey’recomingfrom the north ormid-Atlantic theywon’t go below thirty-six degrees. Soweshouldstaysouthofthirty-sixdegrees.Forthetimebeing,thatis.IfI’vegotitright,wemustbeintheneighborhoodofCapeSpartelagain.Or

elsefartherwest,butatthesamelatitude.Thenavigatorhasn’ttimeforhisdeadreckoningrightnow,andthere’snoonetotakehisplace.Sothere’llbeaprettybighiatusonhiscoursechart.Inotice thatbothWatchOfficershavedisappeared.Icanhardlystayonmy

feet either. Fewer orders to the helmsman. So we must have got through thecircleofpatrolsunscathed.“Permissiontocomeonthebridge?”Iask.“Jawohl,”fromtheOldMan.Icanhardlymoveamuscle.Beenstandingsolong.PainfullyIclimbpastthe

helmsman—theBerliner.WindstrikesmeinthefacebeforeIcanlookoverthebulwark.“Well-l-l?”theOldManasksinadrawl.Ican’tsayaword.Peeraround—noshadows—nothing.Thereontheportside

a string of lights: nine or ten.What can that be? TheAfrican coast? Hard tobelieve!I push myself up and take a look at the foreship. It shimmers in the pale

moonlight.Theupperdecklookssoempty.DespitethedarknessIcanseethatthe gratings have been ripped apart in some bizarre fashion. Of the cannon

nothing remains but the mounting. How must the forward side of our towerlook?Thefairinghascertainlybeentorntobits.TheOldMan,standingbesideme,says,“Ratherimpressive,isn’tit?”“I’msorry?”“Impressive—all that.”Hisvoice subsides intoamurmur.All I canhear is,

“Jesusandhisflock…sheepmaysafelygraze.”The navigator interrupts. “Thought He was always with the Tommies—

they’retheoneswiththewhiskey.”Badjokes!Atatimelikethis!More lights. The Old Man gives orders. We weave to and fro while

maintainingagenerallywesterlycourse.First,justgetaway.Putspacebetweenusandthem.“Howlongcanwekeepitup,navigator?”“Agoodhourstill,HerrKaleun!”AllIwant todoisstandhereandbreatheeasily, listentothebeatingofmy

heart, letmyeyes roamover thehorizon, hear thehissingof thebowwave. Ireceiveadashofsprayandtasteitonmytongue:salty.Seeing,tasting,hearing,smelling thenightair.Feeling themotionof theboat.Respondingwithallmysenses—Iamalive!Itipmyheadback.Hereandthereafewstars.Torncloudcoverthatbarely

movesandshadesthesicklemoon.Forus,resurrectionhasdawned—exceptthatitwasbynight, andnobodyelse isevenawareof it. InKernévelwecountassunk.TheTommieswillhavecertainly reported thatmuchpromptly.Theycanusetheirradioasmuchastheylike.Wecan’t.Admittedlysomeonesaidthatourtransmittermightwork,butwehave tobeverycarefulnot to call attention toourselves.TheTommiesare toomuchon thealert; theycangetbearingsfromeventhebriefestradiomessages.“Allrightthen,”mutterstheOldMan.“Anotherhourandwe’llpackitup!I

thinkwecanletthewatchcomeondeck—eh,navigator?”“Thinkso,HerrKaleun!”“Secondwatch, stand by!” theCommander calls below. “Well,” he says to

me.“Ican’tunderstandit!”“Whatcan’tyouunderstand?”

“Thatthey’relettingusramblearoundthisway.”“NorcanI,”theOldMansaysdryly.“Butit’stypicalofthem.Myoldruleis:

Keepgoing!Thiswouldneverhavehappenedwithme.”“Whatwouldn’t?”“We wouldn’t—be sailing around again, that is! Don’t stop till the

Commander’scapfloatsup—oldrule.”My jaws drop open in sheer amazement. Professional criticism of enemy

technique.IftheTommieshaddonethingstheOldMan’sway,we’dhavebeentotallywipedoutbynow.“Yououghttohitthesackforawhile,”hesays.Hesoundsslurred,likeone

drunkgivinganotherdrunkadvice,convincedthathe’ssober.“I’m all right for awhile,” I say casually, butwhen I hear that the second

watchisready,Ireportdownfromthebridgeallthesame.The stinking buckets have disappeared. The calcium chloride too. Situation

normal. The ventilators are humming. Everything cleaned up. For a wonder,stateroomHisfree.All’squietinthepettyofficers’compartment.Threecurtainsdrawn.Iclamber

intomybunkjustasIam,fullydressed,andpushtheescapegeartothefootofthebunkwithoutrepackingit.Nowthepotashcartridgeanditspigsnoutareinmy way. Where will it go? Overboard, preferably! I never want to see thisaluminumboxagain.Wherehavetheothersstowedtheirs?Uponedgeagainstthewall.Yes,thatworks.

Explosions in my dreams. “What’s that?” I stammer, pushing aside thecurtain.Anotherthree,fourdull,echoingbooms.Someone is sitting at the table. He turns his face toward me. I blink and

recognizethedieselmateKleinschmidt.“They’reaftersomeone!”“Fuckingbastards!”“Theycan’tbeafterus—it’sbeengoingonforhalfanhour!”“Howlateisitnow?”“11.30hours!”

“What’sthat?Whatdidyousay?”“11.30hours—rightonthenose!”WithatwistingmotionKleinschmidtraiseshisrightarm,sothatIcanseehis

watch.ThenInoticethatIhavemyownwatchagain.Chasingsomeone!Butitmustbedaylightupthere.11.30—that’sa.m.Can’t

relyonmyfeelingfortime.I’mcompletelyconfused.Surelynoonewouldtrytogetthroughduringtheday?Anotherseriesofdetonations!“Scarebombsperhaps,”IsaytoKleinschmidt.

“Iwishthey’dbegoodenoughtostop;it’sdrivingmecrazy!”Ipushmyselfup,rollovertheguardrail,andheadforthecontrolroomtofind

outwhat’shappening.Thecontrol-roommatehastakenoverthejobofkeepingcountofthedepth

charges,becausethenavigator’sasleep.“Thirty-three,thirty-four,thirty-five,thirty-six,thirty-eight.”Thelasttwoweresimultaneous.The First Watch Officer is there too. Sitting on the chart chest listening

intently. In adrill-monkey jacket.Where in theworlddidheget that? It’snotwhatwe’reusedtoseeingonhim.Hisbeardisstillsproutingtoo.Thelightfromthecharttablemakesdeepshadowyhollowsoutofhiseyes—adeath’shead.Tocompletetheimage,allhe’dhavetodoisbarehisteeth.“Forty,forty-two,forty-four—thatdoesit!”“Howfaroff?”“Wayoff,”saysthecontrol-roommate.“Atleastfifteenmiles,”saystheFirstWatchOfficer.“Thankyousomuch!”The fact that theCommander is not in the control roommakesme uneasy.

And the Chief? Is he in the engine room? Or is he finally asleep? The twohydroplane operators perch motionless in front of their control buttons.Indifferent,asthoughthey’dlongsincegonetosleep.Awholeseriesofdetonationsinasinglegrumblingdrone.“Wayoff!”IheartheCommandergrowlbehindme.Wearingnothingbutshirt

and trousers.His face is twisted inprofessionaldisapproval.Behindhim I see

thenavigator.AndnowtheChief.“Shit!”mutterstheChiefineverypausebetweenbombs.“Shit—shit—-shit!”

Likeadefiantchild.Havetheybyanychancebeenworkingoverouroilslick?Thebombscould

hardlybeintendedforanotherboat.Afterall,it’sbroaddaylight!“Comingnearer,”saysthenavigator.That’s all we need! The rudder motor is making much too much noise.

Everythinginthisboatistooloud.TheOldMandismissesthiswithaflickofhishand.“Foolishness!”Just then therumblingsuddenlystops.You’d think theOldMan’shandhad

putanendtoit.“Probablyunloadingtheirsurplus!”hesaysbitingly.“Hadtogetridofthem!

Sothey’relittering.”Hedisappearsagain.

Itakealookatthechart.Amazing—thenavigatorhaspatchedtheholeinourcourse.Itwouldn’tsurprisemeiftheship’sposition,whichwasenteredat06.00,hadbeenderivedfromastronomicalobservation.IfIknowhim,hetookafewquickshotsatthestarsbeforeheleftthebridge.Onthechart,everythinglooksquitesimple.We’vecertainlyperformedmore

complicated maneuvers before: This is a mere reverse tack. I see by thePapenbergthatwe’resixtyfeetdown.Herrmann’s onduty in the sound room.He favorsmewith a blank, owlish

stare.Ialmostsay“Goodmorning”intohisemptyface.Butit’salreadymidday.AndImustn’tdisturbhim.He’ssupposedtobelisteninginalldirectionsatonce.His two earphones have to take the place of four pairs of binoculars; his twoeardrums,eighteyes.Whatwas it the control-roommate said? “Limping home on crutches—not

exactlymyline.”BackfromtheBeresinaoncrutches.AndtheLordsmotethemwith men and with horses, and with chariots. Faith, hope, and charity, thesethree.Butthegreatestoftheseishope.TheCommanderhasclosedhiscurtain.Itiptoepast.

IntheOfficers’MesstheSecondWatchOfficerisflatout.ButtheChiefisn’tin his bunk. If he hasn’t slept at all yet, he must be about ready for themadhouse.Twelvehoursagohewasalreadypracticallyadeadman.Andthisisthetimehiswifeisdue.Aprettystateofaffairs:hiswifeinaclinicinFlensburg,and theChief in theAtlantic surrounded by demolishedmachinery, sixty feetdownandonthevergeofmadness.I’mreadytodropdeadofexhaustionagain.Nostrengthtodragmyselfback

tothepettyofficers’compartment.Halfconscious,IcollapseinacorneroftheChief’sbunk.

The stewardwakesme.Apparently he’s been trying for some time. I knewsomeonewas shakingme, but letmyself float back intounconsciousness timeafter time. His mouth is close to my face. “Five minutes to midnight, HerrLieutenant!”IsqueezemyeyelidstogetherastightasIcan,thenwrenchthemopen.“Yes?”“Fiveminutestomidnight,HerrLieutenant!”“Istheresomethingtoeat?”“Jawohl!”IcanheartheCommandernextdoor,talkingtothesoundman.He’srasping

likeadrunk.Nowhecomesin.“Well!”isallhehastosay,asusual.Reddenedeyes,twitchingeyelids,sallowskin,glisteninghair,darkglistening

beard:He’sobviouslyputhiswholeheadunderafaucet.Finallyheopenshismouth.“What’sonthemenu?”“Rouladeofbeefwithredcabbage,”thestewardreplies.Cookie—he’safuckinggenius!I’dbeencountingoncannedsausageatbest,

notaSundaydinner.“Hm,”saystheOldMan.He’sleanedbackandisblinkingattheceiling.“Where’stheChief?”Iask.“With his beloved engines;where else?He fell asleep squatting right there

between the diesels. They stretched him out on a bunkmattress.He’s to stay

thereforthetimebeing.”Threesteamingdishesappearonthetable.TheOldMansavorsthedelicious

smellsthatcomewaftingtowardhim,Three,fourdulldetonations.Isthatbombingnevergoingtostop?TheCommandermakesaface.Gnawsathislowerlip.Twoexplosionslater

hesays,“Thesefireworksaregettingtobeabore!AnyonewouldthinkitwasNewYear’sEvealready!”Heshutshiseyesandmassageshisface.Itdoesn’timprovehiscolorforlong.“AndtheSecondEngineer?”TheCommanderyawns.Butthisonehaswordstoit.“…Intheengineroom

too.Seemstherearestillsomethingstobepatchedupthere.”Heyawnsagain,leansback,andpatshisgapingmouthwiththebackofhis

righthand,therebytransformingtheyawnintoatremolo.“He’s had a proper training course. Now at least he knows what it’s all

about!”Hespearsapieceofroulade,bareshisteeth,andbitesonitcautiously:hot.“Propellernoisebearingninetydegrees!”callsthesoundman.TheOldManisupatonceandbesidethesoundroom.“Louderorweaker?”heasksimpatiently.“Constant!Turbineengines!Stillratherweak—nowthey’regettinglouder.”Theloopoftheheadsetarchesbetweentheirtwoheadslikeabracketasthe

twomensharetheearphones.Notaword.SlowlyIturntolookatourtableagain.Myhalfofarouladeliesbetweena

small heap of red cabbage and a small heap of potatoes.All at once it seemsridiculous.“Movingaway!”Thatwasthesoundman.GroansandthecrackingofjointsannouncethattheOldManisgettingtohis

feetagain.“Theymightat least letuseat inpeace,”hesaysashepusheshimselfback

behindthenarrowendofthetable.He’s hardly sat down when the sound man announces new noises. “One

hundredseventydegrees!”

“Justwhenitwasgettingniceandquiet,”saystheCommanderwithreproachinhisvoice—andthen,“We’lljustwaitabit!”Hetakestwoorthreebites.Idecidetogooneatingtoo—verycautiously—in

caseImakeanyunnecessaryclatterwithmyknifeandfork.Hereweare,tryingtoswallowgoodrouladeswhiletheTommiesareplaying

theacousticsgame.ItstrikestheOldManassheerspitefulness.“Cold,”hesaysdisgustedly,ashebitesonthenextmouthful.Annoyed,hestaresathisfoodforafewminuteslonger,thenpushestheplateaway.The exploding depth charges plus the closeness of the propeller noises are

makinghimvisiblynervous.PossiblytheTommiesreallyarefocusingonouroilslick?Isthereanywaywecanknowwhetherwe’releavingatrailbehindus?

Acoupleofhoursmore sleep, that’s the thing!Bliss!Stretchout, curl yourtoes,andthenstraightenthemoutagain.Giventhemesswe’rein,thatamountstopurehappiness. I shudderat the thought thatwe’dhavebeenswimmingforhoursbynowiftheOldManhadn’tbeensostubborn.Thatice-coldpokerplayerknowswhatafloatingvesselisworth,evenifit’sawreck.

It’s17.30hourswhenIwakeup.Veryodd—we’resteeringacourseofthirtydegrees.So theOldManmustwant tobringusclose to thecoastagain. Ifweholdtothiscoursewe’llrunstraightintoLisbon.How long is it since Iwas called to the bridge one night becausewewere

abreastofLisbon?Closeunder thecoast ispresumablythesafestplaceforus.Incaseofneed,

run thescowashore—thatmaybewhathehas inmind.Possible,yes.But if Iknowhim,he’lldoanythingtoholdout.Weare,afterall,fullyequipped.Quantitiesofoil—despiteourlossesdueto

leakage.Fullquotaoftorpedoesandplentyofprovisions.AprovisionedboatisnotsomethingourOldManwouldbelikelytosurrender.For a voyage straight across Biscay, Cape Finesterre would be the starting

point.Isthatwhathe’safter?

“Standbytosurface!”Theorderechoesfrommouthtomouth.Sincethere’snobodymoving in the next compartment, I get up, walk stiff-legged into thegangway, open the hatch to the bow compartment, and roar into the semi-darkness,“Standbytosurface!”Thecustomary ritualbegins.The secondwatch isonduty.18.00.Only two

morehoursofwatch.Acrowdinthecontrolroom.Onceagainwehavetosurfaceblind.“Towerfree!”“Equalizepressure!”Thehatchspringsopen.TheCommander’sthefirstoneup.Heimmediately

ordersdieselpower.Theboatshudders.Coursethirtydegrees.I go up onto the bridge behind the Second Watch Officer. A quick look

around: We’re alone within the circle of the horizon. The night-black seacontrastssharplywithatraceofbrightersky.Littlewind.“We’llsoonhaveLisbonabeam,”saystheOldMan.“Butthistimetostarboard,”Isay,andallthewhileI’mthinking:ifthatwere

theonlydifference!

TheChiefappearsfordinner.Ihardlydarelookathim,he’ssoworn.“Theymusthavehadradar,”theOldMansaystohim.Radar.Allthebigshipshaveit.Thosehugemaneuverablemattressesonthe

mast.TheBismarckcaughttheHoodwithradar,beforetheHoodhadshownsomuch as the tip of her mast. And now the Tommiesmust have succeeded inshrinkingtheirhugesystemsthewaytheJapaneseshrinktrees.Dwarftrees,andnowdwarfradars,sosmallthewholebusinessfitsintoacockpit.Andyoucanbetyourlifewedon’thaveanydefenseagainstityet.I’mcurioustoknowwhenSimonewillfindout.Herpeopleareverymuchon

thealert.Herpeople?I’dgivealottoknowwhethershereallyiscommittedtotheMaquisornot.Weshouldhavebeenbacklongago.Noboatinthelastyearhasbeenoutaslongasthis,evenwithouttheGibraltardisaster.Not aword aboutGibraltar.Not the slightest reference to it. The hourswe

spentonthebottomaretaboo.

The seamen are silent too.Gibraltar has left itsmarkon their faces.Nakedfear is themost common expression. Everyone knows:We’re unable to dive.Theboatwon’tstandmore thanperiscopedepth.Manyof theribsarebroken.Theboat is aswobbly as a hammock, notmuchmore than a travelingwreck.Everyone’safraid it’snotup to thewinterstormsofBiscay.OuronlypieceofluckisthattheTommiesareconvincedthey’vesmashedus.Whichmeanstheywon’tsendoutasearchparty.

ThenextdayIwakeuptofeelahandonmyarm.Theshockoffear.“What’shappened?”Thecontrol-roomassistantTurbocatchesmyhorrifiedexpression.Nosound

ofthediesel,notahumfromthemotors.Quietintheboat.“What’sgoingon?”Turbo’sstillstaringatme.“Man,can’tyoutellmewhat’sgoingon?”“We’relyingdead.”Stopped?Howcanthatbe?EvenwhileIwasasleep,everychangeinspeed

was registering itself in my subconscious. And now the engine has stoppedwithoutmyevenhearingit?Ablowlikeafistonasandbag,thenasuckingsmack:wavesstrikingagainst

thebuoyancytanks.Theboatrocksplacidlybackandforth.“You’retocometothebridge.”Thecontrol-roommateisaconsiderateman.He’scarvedhisnewsintobite-

sizedpiecesandiswaitinguntilI’veswallowedthefirstbeforeofferingthenext.“TheCommander’s topside—you’re to comeup too—fact is,we’ve stoppedaliner.”As though to emphasize what he’s saying, he nods, then withdraws from

furtherquestioningbywalkingbackward.Stoppedaliner?TheOldManmusthavegonemad.What’sallthisnonsense

about?Anewact?Orarehashoftheolddayswhentheycapturedenemyshipsandsailedthemhomeasbooty?

So quiet! The curtain opposite is open, and the one underneath. No onearound.Aretheyalloutstoppingships?Two men in the control room, thank god. Tilting my head back I ask,

“Permissiontocomeontothebridge?”“Jawohl!”Awetwind.Skyfullofstars.Chunkyfiguresinthedark:theCommander,the

navigator,theFirstWatchOfficer.Aquickglanceoverthebulwark:Ohmygod—directlyoverournetguardagiganticship.Bearingninety,bowleft.Brilliantlylit up from stem to stern. A passenger liner. Easily twelve thousand grossregistered tons, if not more! Just lying there! Dead in the water! A thousandtonguesofyellow-whitereflectionsontheblackocean:shimmeringspangles.“I’ve been busy with her for an hour now,” the Old Man growls without

turningaround.It’s icy cold. I shiver. The navigator handsme his binoculars.After two or

three minutes the Old Man speaks again. “We stopped her exactly fifty-fiveminutesago.”Hehashisglassestohiseyes.Thenavigatorbeginsawhisperedexplanation.

“Weusedourlamptosignalher—”ThentheCommanderbreaksin:“Signaledthatwe’d torpedo her if they used their radio. They probably haven’t used it,either.Andtheyweresupposedtogiveushername.Butitdoesn’tcheck.ReinaVictoria—somethingorotherSpanish.TheFirstWatchOfficercouldn’tfinditintheregister.Something’srottenintheStateofDenmark!”“Butallthoselights!”Isaywithoutthinking.“What better camouflage than to keep all your lights on and claim to be a

neutral?”The navigator clears his throat. “Funny,” he says, between the hands

supportinghisbinoculars.“Much too funny formy taste,” growls theCommander. “If onlywe knew

whetherthescow’sonrecord.I’veasked.Messagewentoutlongago.”So the Old Man has radioed after all! Damned dangerous. Was it really

necessary?“Stillnoanswer.Maybeourtransmitterisoutoforder.”Thisistoomuch!Asignal—inoursituation!Justtobesuretheycangetafix

onus!

TheOldManseemstohavereadmythoughts,becausehesays,“HavetobecertainwhatI’mdoing.”Oncemore thefeelingofunreality, that thishugeship isanoptical illusion,

thatatanyminutetherewillbeabang—andthensighsofrelief,laughter,endofperformance.“He’sknownforthelasthalfhourthathe’llbetorpedoedifhedoesn’tsend

overaboat,”saystheOldMan.TheFirstWatchOfficeralsohashiseyesgluedtohisglasses.Silence.Thisis

pure madness. This gigantic liner towering over our bulwark. Playing pirateswithourruinedscow!TheOldMan’soutofhismind!“We’re covering the wave length he uses. But god knows what all this is

about.FirstWatchOfficer,signaloveragaininEnglish:Iftheboatisn’thereintenminutes,I’llopenfire.Ship’stime,navigator?”“03.20hours!”“Reporttomewhenit’s03.30.”ForthefirsttimeIseetheradiomanHinrichonthebridge.He’sbracedhigh

upoverthebulwark,withtheheavysignallampinhishands,sendingstabsoflightdartingthroughthedarknesstowardtheliner.“Damned impertinence!” the Old Man snorts, when there’s no

acknowledgmentofthesignalfromtheotherside.“Thatreallyis…thefuckinglimit!”The radiomanhas to repeathis call three timesbeforea signal lamp finally

shows between the bright portholes of the steamer. The First Watch Officerwhispers each letter along with the radioman: short flash—long flash—short,long—anothereternitybefore theanswer iscompleted.TheOldMandefiantlyrefusestoreadtheletters.“Well?”hefinallysnapsattheFirstWatchOfficer.“He’shurryingthebesthecan,iswhathesignaled,HerrKaleun.”“Hurryingthebesthecan!What’sthatsupposedtomean?Firsthegivesusa

falsename,thenthisrubbish.Ship’stime,navigator?”“03.25hours.”“Nerve! Gives us a false name, then just sits there, not doing a fucking

thing…”

TheCommandershiftsfromonefoottotheother,handsthrustdeepintothesidepocketsofhisleatherjacket,headdown.Nooneventuresaword.Notasoundapartfromthesplashingof thewaves

against thebuoyancytankstill theOldMancuts looseagain,cursinghoarsely.“Hurryingthebesttheycan—whatthehell’sthatsupposedtomean?”Frombelow,theChiefjoinsin.“What’swrong?”“Ifthere’snoboathereinfiveminutes,I’mgoingtoletthemhaveit,”theOld

Mansaysinatightvoice.I’mwell aware thathe’sexpecting thenavigator toagree,but thenavigator

remains silent.He raises his glasses and puts themdown again, but that’s all.Minutes pass. The Commander turns to him: The navigator tries to raise hisglasses,buttoolate.Hehastoexpressanopinion.“I—I—noidea,HerrKaleun.Yousimplycan’ttell—”“Whatcan’tyoutell?”theOldManinterrupts.“There’ssomethingnotquiteright,”thenavigatorsayshaltingly.“Exactly my opinion!” the Old Man answers. “The delay’s intentional.

They’resendingfordestroyers.Oraircraft.”He sounds as if he’s trying to convince himself. The halting voice of the

navigatormakesitselfheardagain.“…worthwaitingabit.”Afterall,wecan’tplaypirateswiththisruinedtubofours.TheOldMancan’t

possiblygoonplayingtheheavy.Thankgodthecannon’sgone.Otherwisehe’dbeallsettofireaway,justtogetthepeopleontheghostshipmoving.“Floodtubeone!”That ice-cold voice! He’s standing diagonally behind me. I can feel his

impatience betweenmy shoulder blades. This is no attack: This is a shootinggallery.Ouropponentislyingstill.Soarewe.Virtuallypoint-blankrange:We’reholdingourmuzzlerightupagainstthetarget,sotospeak.Twowavesboomdullyagainstthebuoyancytanks,oneaftertheother.Then

silenceagain.Onlypantingbreath.Isthatreallythenavigator?SuddenlytheOldMan’svoiceisloudandcutting.“That’sit,navigator:I’vehadenough!Anythingtobeseen?”“No,HerrKaleun,”Kriechbaum replies fromunder his binoculars, his tone

equally sharp.A few seconds pause, then he addsmore calmly, “But I’m nothappy…”

“Whatd’youmean,you’renothappy,navigator?Doyouseesomething—ordon’tyou?”“No,HerrKaleun,nothingtobeseen.”Hesitantly.“Thenwhythemetaphysics?”Moresilence,inwhichthesplashingofthewavessuddenlyechoesloudly.“All right then!” theCommandersuddenlyshouts,apparently ina rage,and

giveshisorders.“Tubeonestandbyforunderwatershot!”He takesadeepbreathand then ina loweredvoice—as ifgivinga running

commentaryonsometrivialevent—hegivestheordertofiretubeone.Aperceptiblejoltrunsthroughthehullasthetorpedoleavestheboat.“Tubeonedischarged!”comesthereportfrombelow.Thenavigatorputsdownhisbinoculars,theFirst\VatchOfficertoo.Westand

rooted,allfacesturnedtowardtheglowingchainofportholes.Christ,what happens next? It’s a gigantic ship, this passenger liner.And it

must be filled to bursting. Any moment now they’ll be blasted sky high ordrownedintheircabins.Thetorpedocan’tpossiblymiss.Theship’slyingstill.Noneedtocalculatetheangleoffire.Smoothsea.Thetorpedo’ssetforsixfeetbelowthewaterline,aimedpreciselymidships.Andtherangeisideal.I stare wide-eyed at the liner, already imagining a massive explosion: the

wholeshiprearingup,jaggedfragmentssoaringintotheair,ahugemushroomofsmoke,ablazeofwhiteandscarlet.Theairsticksinmythroat.Howmuchlongertilltheblowfalls?Thechains

oflightinthelinerbegintodance—Imustbestrainingmyeyes.ThenIbecomeawarethatsomeone’smakingareport:“Torpedonotrunning!”What?Whowas that?The voice came frombelow—from the sound room.

Notrunning!ButIdistinctlyfeltthejoltofitsdischarge.“Nowonder,”saysthenavigator,withwhatsoundslikeasighofrelief.The

torpedo isn’t running. Which means it’s not functioning properly. The bombfrom the plane! It must have wrecked the steering mechanism—the pressurewave,ofcourse—notorpedocouldhavewithstoodit.Anomen!Andnow?Tubetwo,tubethree,tubefour?“Thenwe’lljusttrytubefive,”IheartheOldMansay,immediatelyfollowed

bytheorder:“Connectsterntube!”

Nowhe’s giving the necessary engine and rudder orders to turn the boat—calmly,asifpracticingmaneuvers.Sohedoesn’ttrusttheothertorpedoesinthebowtubes—butiscountingon

thefactthattheoneinthesterntubemaystillbeundamaged.Sohewon’t letgo.Won’t leaveitat that.Won’tevenheedtheomens.He’s

waiting for a regular kick in the teeth. The boat slowly gainsmomentum andbeginstoturn.Thebrightlightsoftheshipthatwereaheadofusjustamomentago move gradually to starboard and then shift astern. Two or three minutesmoreandwe’llhaveherrightoverourstern:inperfectpositionfortubefive.“Theretheyare!”Inearlyjumpoutofmyskin.Thenavigatorshoutsstraightintomyrightear.“Where?”snapstheCommander.“There—that has to be the boat!”He pointswith outstretched arm into the

darkness.Myeyesarewateringfromstaringatthenightsea.Andthere—thereactually

isablob—somethingblack,somethingashadedarkerthantherestofthewater.Soon it’s between our stern and the flickering glow—a dark mass clearly

outlinedagainstthetwinklingreflections.“Inacutter!Aretheyoutoftheirminds?”IheartheOldMansay.“Acutter.

Inthissea!Andwithoutlight!”Istareincredulouslyatthedarkblob.ForonebriefinstantIcatchaglimpse

ofsixfigures.“NumberOne and twomen stand by on the upper deck!Searchlight to the

bridge!”Fromthetower,aconfusionofvoices.“Moveit!”Apparently the electric cable has become tangled up in something, but the

navigatorreachesdownandmanagestogetholdofthehandsearchlight.IthinkIcanhearthesplashingofoars.Suddenly thebowof thecutterappears in thebeamof thesearchlight,high

outof thewater, unreal, projectedonamovie screen; then it disappears againbetween thewaves.Only the head of theman in the stern is visible;with hisforearmhe’sshieldinghiseyesfromthedazzlingglare.

“Careful,NumberOne!Keepherwellclear!”roarstheOldMan.“Christalmighty!”ringsinmyear.Igiveanothertremendousstart.Thistime

it’stheChief.Ihadn’tnoticedhimcomeonthebridge.The cutter is up again. I make out six men plus the helmsman: shapeless

creaturesrowingfuriously.NumberOnethrustsoutaboathooklikealance.Shouting, confusion of voices. Number One curses, and sends his men

scurryingupanddownontheupperdeckwithfenders.Nowitsoundsasthoughan oar has splintered.The helmsman on the cutterwaveswildlywith his freehand.Mostoftheshoutingseemstobecomingfromhim.“Look out!” roars Number One. And again: “Look out! Goddammit, you

crazypigs…”TheCommanderhasn’tbudgedaninch.Andhedoesn’tsayaword.“Searchlighttotheupperdeck!Don’tblindthem!”shoutsNumberOne.Thecutteriscarriedawayagain;inamomenttherearefifteenortwentyfeet

of open water between it and our upper deck. Two men have stood up, thehelmsmanandsomeoneelseIhadn’tseenbefore;sothereareeightofthem.MeanwhileNumberOnehasbeen joinedbysomemoreof thecrew.As the

cutter swept towardusagain, the twomensucceed in jumpingontoourupperdeck,oneaftertheother.Thefirstonestumbles,almostfalls,butiscaughtjustintimebythebosun.Thesecondjumpsshortandlandsonhisknees,butbeforehecanfallbackoneofourmenhasgrabbedhimbythebackofthenecklikearabbit.Thefirststumblesintotheholethatthebombtoreinourupperdeck;thesecondtripsandfallsagainstthegunmount.There’sanaudiblethump.“That’ll put a nice gash in his face,” someone behindme says. The bosun

curses.Thetwoshapelessfiguresclamberstifflyuptheironladderontheoutsideof

the tower. Dear god, they’re wearing old-fashioned kapok life jackets. Nowondertheycanhardlymove.“Buenosnoches!”Ihear.“Whatwasthatthegentlemenjustsaid?”theChiefasks.The bridge is suddenly jammed. An incomprehensible torrent of talk. The

smallerofthetwomenisgesturinglikeanepilepticmarionette.

Sou’westers, pulled low, almost cover their faces. Their kapok life jacketshaveworkedupsohighduringtheirclimbthatthearmsofthesecondman—theonewho’snotmotioning—stickoutliketwolonghandles.“Take it easy gentlemen, and downstairs please!” says the Old Man in

English,makingquietinggesturesashepointsbelow.“Spaniards,”saysthenavigator.They’resmallmen,butthey’rewearingsomuchbulkyclothingthattheycan

hardlygetthroughthehatch.Inthesemi-darknessofthecontrolroomIfinallygetalookatthem.One,the

Captain,apparentlyisstout,withashortblackbeardthatlooksgluedtohisface.Theotherisalittletallerandhasadarkcomplexion.Bothpeeraboutasthoughsearchingforsomemeansofescape.NowInoticethat theCaptainisbleedingfromafleshwoundoverhiseye.Likeawoundedboxer.Theblood’srunninginstreamsdownhischeek.“Boy,they’reattheendoftheirrope!”Ihearthecontrol-roommateIsenberg

say.He’sright.I’veneverseensuchfear.Then I realize what a terrifying spectacle wemust present: glittering eyes,

sunkencheeks,unkemptbeards,abarbarianhordelooseinaworldofmachines.Andwemust stink like the plague.Most of us still haveon the same tatteredunderwearwewerewearingwhenweputtosea.Andthesetwohavecomefroma world of rosewood saloons and carpeted passageways: I bet there are evencrystalchandeliersontheceilings.EverythingasfancyastheWeser.Didwescarethemupfromthedinnertable?Can’thave.It’sthemiddleofthe

night.“They’reactingasifwewereabouttobutcherthem,”Isenbergmurmurs.TheOldManstaresopen-mouthedatthegesticulatingSpanishCaptainasif

he’s a visitor from outer space.Why doesn’t he say something?We all standround the two jumping jacks and stare:Noone says aword.The fatSpaniardflailshisarmsandemitstorrentsofincomprehensiblesyllables.SuddenlyI’mwildwithrage.Icouldjumpathisthroat,chokeoffhisstream

of gibberish, knee him in the balls. I no longer recognize myself: “Yougoddamnedsonovabitch,”Ihearmyselfsnarl,“gettingusintothismess!”TheOldMan’sflabbergasted.

“Youcan’twipeyourassonuslikethis!”TheSpaniardjuststaresatme,blankhorrorinhisface.Ican’tarticulatewhat

has enraged me: but I know what it is. Turning us into executioners—notansweringoursignals;keeping theOldManwaitingforhours;arriving in thischildish cutter instead of a motor launch; without running lights; simplywanderingabout.ThestreamofSpanishhasceasedabruptly.Hiseyesjerkaround.Suddenlyhe

stammers,“GutteMann,GutteMann.” He doesn’t knowwhom tomake thisgrotesqueappealto,soheturnsonhisheelsinhislifejacket,awkwardasabear,stillclutchingtheoilskinenvelopewithhisship’spapersunderhisarm.Thenheseizestheminhisrighthandandperformsakindofhands-up.TheOldManscrewsuphis faceand reaches silently for theenvelope.The

Spaniard screeches in protest, but the Old Man interrupts him coldly. “Yourship’sname?”HeasksinEnglish.“ReinaVictoria—ReinaVictoria—ReinaVictoria!”Suddenly he’s all eagerness to oblige; he bows and immediately rises on

tiptoetopointoutthisnameintheship’spapers,whichtheOldManhaspulledoutoftheenvelope.The First Watch Officer observes the scene expressionlessly, but he’s

beginningtolooksick.Suddenly, there’squiet.After awhile theOldMan raiseshis eyes from the

papers and looks at theFirstWatchOfficer. “Tell this gentleman that his shipdoesnotexist.Afterall,youspeakSpanish.”The First Watch Officer comes out of his trance. He turns bright-red and

begins to stammer out Spanish from behind the foreign Captain’s back. Thelatteropenshiseyeswide inamazementandsnapshishead fromside toside,tryingtocatchtheFirstWatchOfficer’seye,butnoamountofhead-turningcanaccomplishthis—hislifejacket’ssittingmuchtoohighonhim;hehastopivothiswholebody.Insodoingheendsupwithhisbacktome.Andit’sashock.Smallstenciledlettersontheunderedgeofhislifejacket:SouthCarolina. I’msuddenly triumphant. Now we’ve got you! The Old Man was right. AnAmerican,disguisedasaSpaniard!I poke the OldMan and trace the lettering on the edge of the life jacket.

“Interesting,this:look—SouthCarolina!”

TheSpaniardwhirls aroundas thoughbittenbya tarantula andpoursout atorrentofwords.Gotyou,youbastard.CuttheSpanishjabber.YoucantalkEnglish,youson

ofabitch.TheOldMan stares nonplussed at the stuttering littleman, then orders the

FirstWatchOfficertotelluswhattheSpaniardisgabblingabout.“South Carolina—the ship—was actually named—South Carolina,”

stammers the FirstWatch Officer. The Spaniard is hanging on his words andnodding likeacircusclown.“Now,however, it isReinaVictoria. Itwas—fiveyearsago—boughtfromtheAmericans.”TheOldManandtheSpaniardstareateachother,andlookreadytospringat

eachother’s throats. It’ssoquietvoncanheareverydripofcondensationas itfalls.“He’s right,” the navigator announces from the table. “Fourteen thousand

grosstons.”He’sholdingtheregisterofships.TheOldManlooksfromtheSpaniardtothenavigator,andbackagain.“Saythatagain,”hesaysfinallyinavoicethatcutslikeawhip.“Theboatisenteredinthesupplement,HerrKaleun.”AndwhentheOldMan

still doesn’t react, he adds in an undertone, “The Herr Oberleutnant didn’tconsultthesupplement.”TheOldMan clenches his fists and stares at the FirstWatchOfficer. He’s

fightingamonumentalbattleforself-control.Finallyhebarks:“I—demand—an—explanation!”The FirstWatchOfficer turns uncertainly toward the navigator and reaches

for the register. A couple of staggering steps toward the chart table, and hecomes to a stop. The way he’s propping himself up, you’d think he’d beenwounded.TheOldManisshakingasifinsuddenhorror.BeforetheFirstWatchOfficer

cansayanythingheturnsbacktotheSpaniard,atwistedgrinonhisface.TheSpanishCaptain senses the change at once andbecomeswildlyvoluble again.“SouthCarolinaAmerican ship—nowReina Victoria Spanish ship.” Five, sixtimes.Graduallythefearfadesfromhisface.“Navigator, takea lookat thesepapers!”theCommanderorders.Butbefore

hecanbegintoleafthroughthem,wegetourbriefingfromtheSpanishCaptain.“Dosmilpasaieros—porAmericadelSud—BuenosAires!”

TheOldManbreathes invery loudly throughhisnose, thenblowsouthardthroughslacklips.Hiswholebodysags.AndnowheslapstheSpaniardontheshoulder.TheeyesoftheSecondSpaniard—hemustbetheFirstOfficer—lightuplikecandlesonaChristmastree.The Commander is a changed man. He seems to have forgotten the First

WatchOfficercompletely.AbottleofCognacandthreeglassesappearasifbymagic.“Neversaynotoanhonestdrop.”TheSpaniardconsidersthissomekindof toast and won’t be outdone. More crazy gibberish and cries of “Eilitler!Eilitler!Eilitler!”The First Watch Officer is as white as a sheet. He stammers out a rough

translationofthelatestoutburst.“TheirCaptainsays—hethoughtwewere—wewere an English patrol boat. That’s why—that’s the reason that he—allowedhimselfsomuchtime.Itwasonlywhen—herealizedweweren’tBritish—thatthingswentcrazy.Andthenthefirstboattheysent—was,sohesays,upset.”TheSpaniardnods likea rockinghorseandadds,“Sí,sí,”againandagain.

“Sí,sí,sí!”“…upsetanddriftedaway.Heapologizes.”“Apologizes is good!” says the Old Man. “He ought to be on his knees

thankingusandtheTommywhoruinedourfirstfish.Andwouldn’tyouliketotellhimthatyoualmosthadhimstandingaroundinawhitenightgownbynow?Himandhis friendandhis two thousandpassengers aswell!Thatyou almosthadthelotofthemonyourconscience.Whydon’tyoutellhimthat?”TheFirstWatchOfficer’slowerjawgoesslack.He’sfinished;hecan’teven

controlhismusclesanymore.

WhentheSpaniardsarebackinthecutter, theCaptainstartsshoutingoffersofphonographrecordsandfruit:halfanhour,and it’llallbehere—veryup todate!Spanishmusic!Flamenco!Marvelousfreshfruit, lotsof it, for thewholecrew!“Push off, you old asshole!” roars one of themen on the upper deck, and

shovestheSpanishcutterawayfromthebuoyancytank.NumberOnehelpswiththeboathook.Theoarssplashintothewater.FragmentsofSpanishwords,andthensomethingthatsoundslike“Wiedersehen.”

“Areyououtofyourmind?”roarsthebosun.TheSpaniardssoonbecomeadarkblobagain.“Theymust be!Not even carrying lights,” the navigator scolds after them.

“Theywerewithinsixtyfeetofusbeforewesawthem.Completelymad!”Weallstareafterthem,butalreadythere’snotraceofthecutter:Thenightsea

hasswalloweditup.TheOldMantakeshistimegivingengine-roomorders.HefindstheFirstWatchOfficerinthecontrolroom.“Do you have any idea—do you even have the brains to realize what you

almostmanaged to commit?What I would have committed becausemy prizespecimen of a First Watch Officer isn’t even competent to do something assimpleasconsultingtheregisterproperly?I’lltellyousomething—yououghttobecourt-martialed!”There’snothingleftfortheFirstWatchOfficertodobuttoshoothimself.But

theonlypistolonboardisinpossessionoftheCommander.Securelylockedup.Uproar in the petty officers’ quarters: “The navigator knew somethingwas

screwy right from the start!”—“The First Watch Officer really got his ballschewedoff!”—“Wewerenearlyupthecreek!”—“TrusttheOldMan—jumpinwith both feet, then have second thoughts.But he really excelled himself thistime.”—“Christ, they don’t know how lucky they were!”—“Damn great shiplikethatandnolaunch.”—“Boy,whatahorse’sass!”ThelastisareferencetotheFirstWatchOfficer.Hours later theOldMan recapitulates. “Everythingsuddenlywentwrongat

once. Itwaswithinahair’sbreadthofbeinga secondLaconia incident. If thetorpedo’ssteeringhadn’tbeenruined…”Silence. Several minutes later, still chewing on his pipestem, he says: “It

reallyshowsyou—lifeordeath—sheerchance—oh,bullshit!”There’snodoubtthat theOldMan’sfeelingveryuncomfortableabout thewhole thing,andhe’strying to justifyhimself. “But thewhole thingwas soobvious—theydidkeepdelaying—andwegavethemmorethanenoughtime.Theywerebehavinglikemaniacs!”“Yes,butonlybecausetheywereassumingthey’dbeenstoppedbyaBritish

patrolboat.WedidhailtheminEnglish.ApparentlytheyneverevenconsideredthepossibilitythatwemightbeaGermansubmarine.”“Well,that’swhatyougetforshowingoffinforeignlanguages!”

“Theymusthavebeenscaredshitlesswhentheyrecognizedus!”“Tsch!” says the Old Man. “That’s the way things go. One thing leads to

anotherand…”He’s silent for a good five minutes. They he says, “It’s also a terrible

disadvantage that we’ve no way of measuring the power of our transmitter.Perhapsourinquiryaboutthemneverevenwentout.Afterall,theantennawasshearedoff,andallsortsofotherequipmentwasruined.AradioontheblinkandanincompetentforaFirstWatchOfficer—whatmorecouldyouaskfor?”Quiteapart from the stateofournerves, I addsilently. Itwas thenavigator

who was right all along. Always rational, always cool, never flustered. HerefusedtobeseducedbytheOldMan’sopinionswhenhedisagreedwiththem.The conciliatory gurgling of the Old Man’s pipe is driving me out of my

mind.“Thewholethingwouldhavecausedthemostgodalmightystink!”Iburstout,“andwe’dhavebeenrightinthemiddleofit—”“No,wewouldn’t,”theOldManinterruptsharshly.Ican’tmakeheadortailofthis.SoIwait.There’sobviouslymoretocome.

Buttheintervaldragsonandon,sofinallyIsay:“Idon’tunderstand.”“Really?It’sperfectlysimple:We’dhavehadtowipetheslateclean.Typical

case…”He breaks off, then says in an undertone, “There would have been no

survivors!”What’shesaying?“Itwouldhavebeenthe typicalsituationthatyouneverfindin therules.In

caseslikethisyou’recompletelyonyourown.AlltheNavydoesistellyouyouhavecompletediscretion,Thatyoushoulduseyourownjudgment.”The cold pipe in his right hand draws circles in the air. He’s straining for

words. “Theydidn’tuse their radio.Ofcourse, theyknow thatwecanalwaysmonitor that, assuming things are normal. Suppose the torpedo’s gyroscopicapparatus had been in order andhad blownup its target, then the linerwouldhave‘hitamine.’Sunksofast therewouldn’tevenhavebeentimeforaradiosignal. In any case, a German U-boat couldn’t let itself be seen as havinganythingtodowithit.Insituationslikethisthere’snohelpforit.Youhavetowipe the slatewhether youwant toor not!You can’t do these thingsbyhalf-measures.”Hemovesoffheavilyinthedirectionoftheforwardhatch.Thefullimplicationsofhisgruesomeuseoftheclichébegintosinkin,andI

shiver.InstantlyI’massailedbyimagesoflifeboatsriddledbymachine-gunfire,arms thrown up, waves reddened by streams of blood, faces filled withincreduloushorror. I remember scrapsof stories thathavemademyblood runcold.Half-heardbabbleintheBarRoyal.Onlydeadmentellnotales.Whydidtheygetit?Whynotus?Theygetusbytheshorthairs,too.Myteethbegintochatteruncontrollably.Whatnext?Whatelsemusthappen

beforewe’re finallywipedout?A shuddering sob rises from somewhere deepinsideme.IclenchmyfistsandgritmyteethashardasIcan,chokingitbackuntil thewhole lowerhalfofmyface isasingleknotofpain.Andjustat thatpointtheChiefturnsup.“Well,well,what’sthematternow?”heasks,concerninhisvoice.“Nothing,”Imanagetosay.“Nothing—quiteallright!”Hehandsmeaglassof apple juice. I seize itwithbothhands, take agreat

gulp,thensay,“Liedown—I’djustliketoliedownforawhile.”

InthebowcompartmentDufteisalmostbeatenupwhenhesays,“Biscay—let’shopewegetthroughallright!”Thisisnotimetotemptfateorjogthetablethat’ssupportingourhouseofcards.Whoknowswhatelsecancollapseinthisbeat-upscow?TheOldManmusthavehisreasonsforlayingacoursesoclosetothecoast.Theorder“Preparesafetygear”stillhauntstheair.The thing we fear most is enemy flyers. If a plane spots us now, we’re

finished.Everyoneknowsthat.Crashdivesareoutofthequestion.Timeshavechanged: Now we actually pray for bad weather—but only moderately bad.Spareusthehurricane.Tomorrow, everything will look even worse. At that point the coast will

recede, and the voyage through Biscay begin. How can we cover this stretchwithoutbeingspottedfromtheair?Biscayisunder the tightestsurveillanceofall.AndiftheOldManwasright?IftheBritishAirForcenowhavesomekindofnewequipmentthatmakesusvisibleevenonthedarkestnight?What day is it today anyway? Just “today”; it’s meaningless.When we’re

gliding along underwater, it’s day. When we’re surfaced and running on thediesel,it’snight.Rightnowit’steno’clockandwe’reunderwater.Soitmustbetena.m.

Butwhatdayoftheweekisit?Mybrainlaborstoworkitout.Ifeeldrugged.Finally aword takes shape: calendar. Iwonderwhat day it’s showing today. Ican’t get comfortable on this goddam chest I’m sitting on, so Imight aswellheadfortheOfficers’Mess.That’swherethecalendaristoo.Wobbly as hell on my feet. Like walking on stilts. Well, get going! Pull

yourselftogether.Thesoundmanisstaringblanklyasusual.Lookslikeablowfishbehindglass

inanaquarium.IntheOfficers’MessIusemylefthandtosupportmyselfonthetable.Quite

comfortable,standingthisway.What kind of date is that on the calendar?Ninth ofDecember?We’reway

behindthetimes.DownwiththeninthofDecember!I’llkeepthesheetformyprivate notebook. Memorable. A kind of Bastille Day! The record from tilebarographandthepagefromthecalendar:evocativesouvenirs,andasthrillsgo,cheap at the price. Eleventh ofDecember.Downwith that too. The thirteenthwasExplosionDay.Keepthatonetoo.NineteenthofDecember.Wewerelyingon tile bottom. Twentieth—the same. Twenty-first, twenty-second. All thosedays!Andnowit’sthetwenty-third.Whichistoday.WhichmakesitTuesday.Then I hear someone say, “Christmas Eve tomorrow!” Some Christmas

present!Igulp.Sentimentality?TheusualChristmasemotions?TheFestivalofLove—atsea,onabombed-outscow.It’scertainlydifferent!Weare,ofcourse,superblyequippedfortheFestivalofLove,thankstotheinimitableforesightoftheNavy—there’sthefoldingChristmastreethatcameonboardwiththerestofthe provisions. How will the Old Man handle it? He’s certainly got moreimportantthingstoworryabout.He’sconsideringlayingacourseforLaRochelle.Wecouldpossiblyheadup

theGirondetoBordeaux,butalthoughBordeauxliesfarthersouth,it’sreallynonearer.FromourpresentpositiontoLaRochelleisstillaboutfourhundredmiles—four hundred miles straight across the Bay of Biscay: that means at leastanother thirty-fivehoursminimum.But sincewehave to submergeduring theday,thecalculationlooksworsethanthat.We’llprobablyneedasmuchasforty-eight hours.That’s a long time, especially sincewe don’t knowwhatweatherconditionswe’ll have to dealwith in thenext fewdays, orwhether thedieselwillholdout.The Old Man and the navigator have still further worries. “There’s the

questionofhowwecangetin—nonotion—verynarrowentrance—certaintobe

allkindsofbarriers—coastalshelfveryshallow—dangerofmines.”Subduedvoices everywhere.Everyone seems tobeon tiptoe, as though the

firstloudnoisewouldattracttheenemy’sattention.Inoticethateveryonewhocomesthroughthecontrolroomtriestogetalook

atthechart,butnoonedaresaskhowmanymilesitistobase;nooneiswillingtoadmithowshakyheis.Atthesametimetheyallhavethesamethought:Bayof Biscay, naval graveyard. The worst storms, the most intensive aerialsurveillance.WhenthenavigatorisbackathistableItrythedirectapproach.“Howmany

hoursyet?”“Tsch!”isallIgetbywayofanimmediateanswer.Presentlyhe’llstart spinning conditional sentences that all beginwith “if,” I think tomyself.Buthe’smorediplomaticthanthat.“Whatcanonesay?”Iwatchhimoutofthecornerofmyeyeuntilhefinallygetsgoingagain.“I

calculateforty-sixhoursatleast.Altogether,thatis—notjustcountingthetimeatcruisingspeed.”InthebowcompartmentIdiscoverthatAriowasbeingtormentedbyworries

of his own while the boat was on the bottom. Ario has a collection ofcontraceptives in his seabag. Plus some very expensive special items. Heenumeratesthem:“Oneswithrubberknobs,fancyticklers,evena‘hedgehog’ortwoThiswastheembarrassmentofrichesthathadbeenweighingonhismindthewholetime.“Well,howwoulditlookifstufflikethatturnedupamongmythings?And,besides, they’dbewastedonmynextofkin…Icantellyouonething—before the next patrol, I’mgoing to blowup every single condomandpopthelot.”“Youneedn’thaveworried;theflotillaseestoitthattheydisappear.Allour

stuff is carefully sifted,” Bockstiegel explains. “Filthy photos and rubbers,everything thatmight not amuse thewidows andmourning relatives. I saw itdone once; the paymaster has awhole team of specialists. Before your gear’sturnedover,it’sascleanasawhistle.Youcanrelyonthat!”Forthebridgejohnny,whosemindrunsalongeconomicallines,therearestill

openquestions.“Sowhatdoesthepaymasterdowithallthosecondoms?Afterall,they’reprivateproperty,aren’tthey?”“He puts them on a list,meathead.What elsewould he do?And someone

makestwocopies.Andthenthey’reallcross-referenced.”“TrusttheNavy!”saysSchwalle.

TheOldManspendshis timecommuting fromtheengine roomto thebowcompartmentandbacktothecontrolroom,alwaysfollowedbytheChief,tryingtoformarealisticpictureof theboat’scondition, thoughhecertainlywon’tbeabletomakeanaccurateassessmentofeverythingthat’soutoforder.Theribs,forinstance,can’tbeexaminedbecauseofthebuilt-ininstallations.“Thisboatisreadyfortheashcan!”Ihearhimsayashepasses.The navigator reports that we’re at the latitude of Cape Ortegal. So the

crossingofBiscayisunderway.TheOldManincludestheFirstWatchOfficerintheconsultation,perhapsout

ofsomeimpulseofsympathy,sothatthemanwon’tfeelcompletelyannihilated.A precise sailing program is laid out, but the factors in the calculation mustremainconstantiftheplanistosucceed.Theprimerequirementisthatthedieselholdout.

TheOldMan slumps on the sofa in theOfficers’Mess; he starts to speak:“TheBlessedFeastofOurLord…”thenfallssilent.Icanseehe’sfidgeting—it’snotdifficulttoguesswhyhe’stroubled.Heclearshisthroat,tryingtoluremeintosayingsomething.ButwhatamI

supposed to say? That nobody’s exactly in themood for a floatingChristmasparty?“Oh, screw the whole thing!” he bursts out, while I’m still searching for

words.“We’llsimplypostponethefestivities.ChristmasEveforusiswhenwehavesolidgroundunderourfeetagain.Ordoyouattributesomeimportancetothishumbug?Isupposeyou’llbewantingtoreadaloudtheGospelaccordingtoSaintLuke?”“No,”isallIcansay.Nothingwittyoccurstome.“Well then!” says theOldMan in relief. “We’ll simplybehaveas though it

isn’ttimeyet.”Christmas. Since I turned fourteen something always went wrong. Sad

Christmases, melodramatic Christmases, overdoses of emotional nonsense.Wailingandpoliceinthehouse.AndthenthedrunkenChristmases…

TheOldMan’sright.Whatisallthiswallowinginsentimentality?Justletthedayrun itsnormalcourse.Anormalday,Christ!Betternot throwdaysaroundlikethat.Bettersticktothinkingintermsofhours.Don’tcalldownajinx.Nocelebrations.Outofthequestion.The Old Man is obviously feeling better. One problem less. I’m simply

curiousastohowhe’sgoingtocommunicatehispostponementoffestivitiestothecrew.ThenIgetmyanswer.“Tellthepettyofficers—it’llgetaround!”

Apparently the diesel isn’t functioning as well as it seemed to be at first.There are bugs in it that areworrying theChief.Nothing really ominous, justdisturbing.Forthenextfewhourshedoesn’tleavetheengineroom.Themenknowthatwe’renolongerclosetoshore,andtheboathasbecome

evenquieter.Nervesshowinfitsoftremblingatthemostharmlessnoises.TheChief’s theworst.Evenat thebestof timeshereacts to the tiniestsoundfromtheengines—soundsthatnooneelseevenregisters—withthesensitivityofanexceptionallygreedydoghearingthefaintrustlingofabiscuitpackage.Butthistimehescaredevenme.AsweweresittingsidebysideintheOfficers’Mess,heleapedupsosuddenlythatIwentcold;helistenedforafractionofasecondwithstaringeyes,thendashedintothecontrolroom.Fiendishhubbubinstantlybrokeout.TheChief’svoicewascrackingwithrage.“Haveyougonemad—damnandgoddammit—sincewhen—somethinglikethis—justtakeitaway—getmoving!”Hecollapsesinhiscorneragain,panting.Idon’tdareaskhimwhatwasgoing

on. Ten minutes later I make some inquiries of the control-room mate asoffhandedlyaspossible.TheBibleScholarhadbeenworkingonthekniveswithpolishingsand.This

producedanoddgrittysound,andtheChiefhadbeenunabletoidentifyit.

December twenty-fourth. Still afloat.We’ve covered a considerable stretch.As for the weather, we’ve had incredible good luck: Christmas weather. TheDecemberstormsinBiscayareusuallyterrifying.Butthemostwe’vehadhavebeenwinds of four to five, and sea three. The sea generally does remain onepointbelowthewind.Itcouldn’thavebeenbetter.We’realmosthalfwayacross,

the diesel has held out, andwe’vehadnopursuit grouponour heels.That initselfisenoughtoprovokeasmallshowofoptimism.But no! Everyone slouches about looking miserable. Even the OldMan is

monosyllabic. This rubs off on the crew. He may simply be sticking to hismaxim:“Noreceptionbeforethechurchservice.”Butunlesshecheersthemup,thecrewquicklylapsesintoblackpessimism.Abunchofdepressives.I’llhavetotakealookinthebowcompartmentagain.Perhapsit’sbetterthere.

The bow compartment looks appalling: There’s more confusion than ever.NumberOneprobablyhasn’tdaredgivetheordertocleanship.Thered-shadedlampshavedisappeared.Nofurtherhintofwhorehouseatmosphere.Apathetic,prostrate,theoff-dutywatchliesslumpedonthefloorplates,grown-upchildrenwith false beards. They hardly speak to one another. General surrender andfatalismseemtohavetakenhold.A fewhours later thewhole boat has been cleaned up spick and span.The

CommanderputarocketunderNumberOne.Christmashouse-cleaning.“Can’tletsloppinesstakeover!”hemutterstome.Awisedecision:Juststicktotheship’sroutine—nofuss,keepthetearducts

dry,distractthemenfromthoughtsofhome.Idreadtothinkwhattotalsurrendertoemotionmightproduce.“LaSpezia—wouldhavefittedinperfectly,”saystheOldMan.Deargod,isheoffonChristmasagain?MemoriesoftheorgiesoffoodanddrinklaidonfortheflotillaattheHotel

Majestic: long tables with white cloths, pine twigs instead of green fir fordecoration. Everyone had a “fancy platter”—and a stamped-out star-shapedcardboard platewith spice cookies, Russian bread, pralines, a chocolate SaintNicholas.Christmas carols roared out at full volume.Then the address by theFlotillaChief—theenduringunionofourbeatingheartswiththoseofourlovedones at home, the solicitous Führer, the oldGermanNight ofDedication, theGreatGermanReich, andour splendidFührerüberalles!And then, standing:“Sieg Heil—Heil—Heil!” Drunkenness and the descent into maudlinsentimentality, the blabbering and slobbering, the katzenjammer, the howlingmisery.

It’ssettled:Wemusttrytoputinatthenearestreachablebase.WhichmeansLaRochelle,notSaintNazaireandhome.We’retwenty-fourhoursaway.TheOldMansticksrigidlytonormalroutine:

forty-eight hours before entry into port, whorehouse regulationsmust be readaloud.Thisshouldhavebeendonelongago.It’sreallytheFirstWatchOfficer’sjob,buttheOldManhasrelievedhim—akindofproofofgrace,sincethistextisreallysomething.ItnowdevolvesupontheSecondWatchOfficertobroadcastittothecrewovertheship’sloudspeaker.Thus,insteadoftheGospelaccordingto Saint Luke, the whorehouse ordinance. The SecondWatch Officer does itwell.Histoneofvoicehastherequisiteseriousnessforthereadingofaflotillaorder,while leaving no one in the slightest doubt that he considers thewholethingapieceofsublimelunacy.

Thecontrol-roommateispaintingvictorypennants.Hehasalreadyfinishedonewith the number eight thousandon it:That’s for the first big scow in theconvoy.The First Watch Officer is sitting beside the Chief in the mess, doing

paperwork: assignments for the shipyard, calculation of oil consumption, areportonthetorpedoesfired.Itwouldn’tsurprisemeifhestartedpeckingawayatthetypewriteragain.AlmosthourlyIsneakalookatthechart,andeachtimeIitchtotakeapencil

andsecretlyextendthelinethat’sinchingtowardLaRochelle.Everymileweputbehindusmeansthatmuchlesstensionandfear.Scraps of conversation echo through the half-open hatch to the bow

compartment.Themen’sspiritsseemtoberisingagain.Ievenhearsomeoneinthenextcompartmentaskwho’sgoingtobemakingouttheleavepermits.Hardtobelieve:Westillhaveawholenightaheadofus,we’realongwayfrombeingabletorelaxinsafety,andsomeoneisgettingexcitedabouthisleavepermit.NothingIhearinthebowcompartmentwouldsurprisemeanymore.“What

kindofcathousesdotheyhaveinLaRochelle?”TheE-matePilgrimwasapparentlystationedthereonce.“HowwouldIknow?”isallhesays.

“Shit!Itreallyisimpossibletoaskyouasensiblequestion!”Thankgod—notatraceofChristmasspirit!

Around01.00Iclimbontothebridge.“Roughly another two and a half hours to the escort meeting point,” the

navigatorreportstotheOldMan.Escortmeetingpoint?Areweascloseasthat?“Whichmeanswe’llbethereniceandearly,”saystheOldMan.“We’lltuck

ourselvesinforthetimebeingandhavealookatthetraffic.”“Jawohl,HerrKaleun,”isallthenavigatorhastosay.“Well?” The Old Man turns to me. “No great hurry, I guess—or are you

beginningtofidget?”Icanonlysigh.WhatamIsupposedtosay?Thenightairissilky.AmIsimplyimaginingthings,ordoesitsmellofland

—thatdelicatescentofdampfoliage?Perhaps we’ll soon see a light from the coast. On second thought, no! La

Rochelle, after all, isn’tLisbon.There’s ablackouthere.All along theFrenchcoast,thelighthouseswereturnedofflongago.“Anotherhour’ssleep?”“Wouldn’thurt…”Iask thenavigator to routmeoutwhenhe’s relievedandgobelowshortly

aftertheOldMan.

“Sea’s about two—hardly any wind,” the navigator says as he wakes me,shakingmebythearm.OnceagainIbeattheCommandertothebridge.Isquintahead.Thehorizonisclear,andtheeast isbrighteningalready.The

FirstWatchOfficer is standing forwardon theport side. “To theCommander:Dawn’sbreaking!”TheCommandercomesonto thebridgeandsilentlychecksinalldirections.

“Well,it’llprobablybeallrightforalittlewhilelonger,”hesaysfinally.Butitdoesn’ttakemelongtosensehowuneasyheis.Againandagainheliftshisheadtoglanceanxiouslyatthesky.Intheeast,athreadofpaleyellowliesoverthehorizon.Thedarknessisthinningquickly.Anothertenminutesandhesays,“Wemustbejustaboutthere.”The sea is calm.Wemight as well be on a pond. The sounding gear is at

work.Continuousreportsfrombelow.“Onehundredfeet,ninetyfeetItreachestheseventy-footmarkandstaysthere.“Excellent!” says the Old Man. “Just what we need. All right, navigator,

that’ll do for now!We’ll just tuckourselves in for the timebeing. It’s gettinglighterallthetime.”“Stand by to dive!”Onemore survey of the dark silky sea, thenwe climb

downslowly,takingourtime.“Chief,justtrytosetusdownniceandgently.Shouldn’tbetoohardhere.”Thebumpwhentheboattouchesbottomisnogreaterthanthatofanairplane

touchingtherunway.“Good,”saystheOldMan.“Nowwe’llletthedearLordtakeover!”“AndhisgoodWife,thedearoldwhite-hairedlady…“ThatwastheChief.

Sohe’sfoundhisvoiceagain.“Tiens, tiens!”TheOldManobviously feels he’s back inFrance already. I

mustaskthenavigatorwhetherwe’realreadyongoodFrenchsandybottomorwhethertheseabedhereisstillinternational.For some timemy subconscious has been registering an odd bumping and

scraping noise. Now there’s a dull bang, like a fist hitting a wooden door,immediatelyfollowedbyasecondandthird.Theyechothroughtheboat,thelastalmostdrownedoutbyashrillwhistlingbeforethebumpingandscrapingbeginagain.“Hardtobelieve,”saystheOldMan.“That’squitesomecurrent.”“Andthebottomisn’texactlyallit’scrackeduptobe.”TheChief.Sothebumpingisbeingcausedbyrocks.We’renot lyingfast:We’rebeing

draggedoverthebottom.“Floodthetanks,Chief.”“Jawohl,HerrKaleun!”Ihearwaterflowingintoourregulatortanks:we’reanchoringourselves.

“Good,nowlet’shopeourdirectionchecks!”Silence in theboat.Only theping-ping of condensation.The offdutywatch

have longsincestretched themselvesouton theirbunks.Assoonas it’s reallylight,theOldManwilltakeusuptoperiscopedepth—forty-fivefeet.He’snottellinguswhathe’lldonext.Approachingthecoastwithoutaboom-breakerandanescortwillbea ticklishbusiness. Impossiblebydayandextremelydifficultbynight.JustasI liftmyright leg toclamber throughtheafterhatch, there’sanother

bump.“Goddammittohell,”mutterstheOldMan.“Wecan’tbelyingparalleltothe

current.We’llhavetotrytorepositionher.”Withhalfanear,Iheartheblowing.Thenanotherbumpthatechoesthrough

thewholeboat.Thenanorderfirstforthemotors,thenthehydroplane.Hinrichisatthesoundgear.Hisvoiceseemstocomefromagreatdistance.

“Enginenoisesbearingthreehundreddegrees.Growinglouder!”TheOldManraiseshiseyebrowstheatrically.He’sstandinginthemiddleof

thecontrolroom,listening;theChiefishalfconcealedbehindhim.Idon’tdaremakeamove.TheOldManswallows.IcanseehisAdam’sapplejerkingupanddown.“Pistonengines!”thesoundmanreports.TheOldMansquatsdowninthegangwaybesidethesoundroomandputson

theheadset.Hisroundedbackistowardus.Thesoundmanstickshisheadout.AmutterfromtheOldMan:“Ifthat’snotasubmarinedieselI’lleatmyhat.”He gives the headset back to the sound man, who listens for a couple of

minutes,whiletheOldManremainsbesidehim.“Well,Hinrich?”“Submarinedieselsforsure!”“German or English—that’s the question.Getmoving, FirstWatchOfficer,

readywiththerecognitionpistol.We’llsurfaceandyoufireatonce.What’sthebearingnow?”“Bearingremainstwohundredseventydegrees.”“Standbyanti-aircraftguns!FirstWatchOfficer,on thebridge immediately

afterme!”Instantlythecontrolroomisfilledwithturmoil.Someoneopensthemunitions locker.We’re going to put on a fireworks display right outside ourownfrontdoor?Andthrowinthemachinegunsjustforgoodmeasure?

TheOldManalreadyhashishandonarungoftheladder.“Allclear?”“Jawohl,HerrKaleun!”“Surface!”“Blowthetanks!”I’m standing directly under the hatch when the recognition pistol goes off

aboveme.Menarestillclimbing,soIonlycatchanoccasionalglimpse,betweenathighandtherimofthehatch,oftheredandwhitemagnesiumflares.PrettyChristmasstars.Veryappropriate.Iwait,holdingmybreath.“Fine!” That’s theOldMan. “Signal returned. Take her closer, FirstWatch

Officer.Let’shavealookatourcolleague.”“Incredible!”theChiefsaysbehindme.“Permissiontocomeonthebridge?”Iask.“Comeahead!”It takesmeawhile tospot theotherboaton thedarkwater.She’sheadon;

youcouldmistakeherforafloatingbarrel.“Quick!Upwiththesignallight—moveit!NowZeitler,introduceuswithall

thepropercourtesies!”Zeitlerdirectsthesignallampattheotherboatandtapsawayathismessage.Fromtheotherboata lightflashesout:messageacknowledged.ThenIhear

oursignallampagainandthenavigatorreadsoffwhat’scomingfromoverthere:“UXWOberleutnantBremer.”“That’sfantastic!”saystheOldMan.“Someonehastobeexpectingthem.All

weneedtodoisfollowthemin!”Thenavigatorbeams.Aloadoffhismind:He’stheonewhowould’vehadto

figureouthowtopilotusintoLaRochelle.“Nowallwehavetodoiswaitfortheirescort.Justaskthemwhattimeit’s

supposedtoturnup.”Thebosun’smatepressesthekeyof thesignal lamp;theanswercomesina

matterofseconds.Theymusthaveafirst-ratesignalman.“08.00!”“Nowsignal:‘We’lljoinyou!’That’llgivethemariddletosolve:Howcome

we’re turning up as unexpected guests? They must be wondering why we’reputtinginatanotherflotilla’shomeport—andtodayofalldays.”TheOldManappearstohavenointentionofenlighteningthem.

Duringtheexchangeofsignalswe’vemovedclosertogether—withinhailingdistance.Aloudspeakerbooms:“Whathappenedtoyourcannon?”Wegapeateachother.TheOldManhesitates.EvenItakeawhiletorealize

thattheotherscanseeusjustasclearlyaswecanthem,andthatsomethinghasalteredoursilhouette.“Damnfoolquestion!”snarlsthenavigator.ButtheOldManputsthemegaphonetohismouthandshouts,“I’llgiveyou

threeguesses!”—thenturnstothenavigatorandsaysinanormalvoice:“He’ddo better to make sure his own anti-aircraft guns are ready. It looks damnednastytomearoundhere!”Thenavigatortakesthisasadirectinjunctiontoshoutatthebridgelookouts.

“Keepyoureyespeeled,men,forgod’ssake!”Suddenly a violent, muffled explosion runs through the boat. I feel it as a

blowtothebackofmyknees.Battery?Motors?Somethinggonewrongwiththediesel?Hell,whatwasit?TheOldManshoutsdownthroughthehatch.“Report!Iwantareport!”Nothing from below. Questioning glances between the Old Man and the

navigator.TheOldManraiseshisvoicetoaroar.“Report!Reportatonce!”TheChief’sfaceappearsinthehatchway.“Nothing—nothingtoreport,Herr

Kaleun!”The Commander stares. Have we all gone crazy? There’s just been an

explosion—andabigoneatthat!Thenthesignallampflashesoutfromtheotherboat.Threemouthsspellout

themessagesimultaneously:H-a-v-e-s-t-r-u-c-k-m-I-n-e.“Move!Let’sgocloser!”Mine, mine, mine. So we’re dawdling over a minefield. They never come

singly.I focus my binoculars on the other boat. Nothing noticeable. She’s simply

lying a little stern heavy, as if badly trimmed. I had always pictured a minecasualtyaslookingquitedifferent.Our bow swings slowly round. The other boat is signaling again. “Read it

out!”theCommanderorders.It’s Zeitlerwho responds:H-I-t-I-n-s-t-e-r-n-m-a-k-I-n-g-w-a-t-e-r- f-a-s-t-u-

n-a-b-l-e-t-o-d-I-v-e.

“One of those damned magnetic mines,” says the Old Man. “Probablydroppedbyanaerialnightpatrol.”“Andcertainlynottheonlyonethenavigatorsayscalmly.“Wecan’tchangethat,navigator.Wehavetostayonthesurfaceandprovide

anti-aircraftprotection.”Anddriftslowlythroughtheminefield.Thenavigatorhasnothingtosay.Hisbinocularsaretrainedontheotherboat

andhebetraysnottheslightestemotion.“Justshoutacross,‘Willstayonsurfaceandprovideanti-aircraftprotection!’”The navigator puts the megaphone to his mouth. From the other side the

messageisacknowledgedwithabrief“Thanks!”“Navigator,takeareport:‘06.15hours.UXWhitbymine.’Telltheradioman

totryagain.Perhapswe’llbeinluck.Havehimsendthismessage:‘Emergency.Emergency.UXWhitbymine.Unabletodive.Allsystemsinoperative.Requestimmediateescort.Remainingatpointofexplosion—UA.’”There’snothinglefttodobutwaitandwatchasitgetslighter.“Seems tohavebent theirdriveshaft,”says theOldManharshly.“If ithad

beenthediesels,themotorswouldstillbegoodforsomething,orviceversa.”I notice from the brightness behind us that the tide must have turned us

around:wenowhavetheeastatourback.Wealllookgrayinthepalemorninglight,asifsmearedwithashes.No engine noises, nomotion, no vibration in the boat.We drift along like

flotsam.The fear…and the silence. I hardlydare clearmy throat. If onlyourdieselwererunningagain—I’dgivealottohearthenoise.“Ship’stime?”“07.10hours!”Fear.Weavoidlookingatoneanother,asthoughtointerceptaglancewould

triggerafatalexplosion.“Airplane!Onehundredtwentydegrees!”“Readyanti-aircraftguns!Moveit!Height?”“Eighthundred!LookslikeaHalifax!”Idisappear from thebridge, reach forammunition,hand itonup.Ouranti-

aircraftgunisalreadyblazingaway.We’regivingiteverythingwe’vegot.But

we’re lying still. Playing target. Through the racket of our gun I hear a greatexplosion.Thensuddensilence.Irushontothebridgeandlookaround.Whereingod’snameistheotherU-

boat?Nothingbutflat,opalescentsea.Onlyacoupleofdarkblobsdriftingoffourportbeam.Our bow swings toward them. Finally the navigator says, “Direct hit—just

forwardofthetower!”I’mseeingthingsinatrance:agrayfilterseemstohavebeenintrudedinfront

ofthecamera.Isquint,blinkhard,stare:Theboatthatwasthereamomentagoisgone.Andtheairplane?Disappeared.Asinglebomb?Asinglepass?Adirecthit?They’recomingback,Itellmyself,andthere’llbeaswarmofthem.Fighter

protection?Whydon’twehaveanyfighterprotection?FatpigGoring—himandhisbigmouth!Whereareourairplanes?Theseaisflat,polished.Nomotion—notsomuchasawrinkle.Aknife-edge

ofhorizon.Andthere,wherethelonghulloftheboatwaslyingamomentago,moreoftheseblobs,adisturbingfault insmoothquicksilver.Nowhirlpool,nosurge,nothing—noclatterofengines—silence.Whydoesnoonescream?Thestillnessisabsurd.Givesmethefeelingallthis

is unreal. Our bow has swung toward the drifting blobs. In the glasses theyresolvethemselvesintoindividualentities,headssuspendedinlifejackets.Themen manning our anti-aircraft gun are still standing there like statues,expressionless,asthoughtheyhaven’tyetgraspedwhathasjusthappened.Onlytheheavingoftheirchestsbetraysthem.Number One is waiting on the upper deck with five men, to take aboard

survivors.“Goddammit—lookout!”heroars.Onthestarboardside thesea is red.Blood insaltwater.Whatarewe todo

withthesewretchedcreatures?Idon’tdarelooktooclosely.Bettertowatchthesky.Close behind me, someone says, “Probably they pictured Christmas

differentlytoo!”Amanappearsdrippingonthebridgeandstammersoutsomekindofreport,

hishandonhisforehead:theotherCommander,Bremer.

Hisface—innocentasachoirboy’s—istwisted;inspasm.Heactuallyhowls.Staresstraightaheadasifhypnotized.Clencheshisteethtotrytostophislowerjawclickinglikeacastanet,butcan’tdoit.Hiswholebodystartstotremble.Asteadyfloodoftearsrunsdownhistwitchingcheeks.TheOldManlooksathimcoldly, insilence.Finallyhespeaks.“Whydon’t

yougobelow!”Bremerrefuseswithaviolentshakeofthehead.TheOldMan issuesanorder. “Bringup theblankets!”And then, as if ina

suddenrage:“Moveit!Iwantblanketsuphere.Now!”As the firstblanket ishandedup through the towerhatchhehimselfputs it

aroundBremer’sshakingshoulders.Not sufficient depth of water to dive; no boom-breaker; no antiaircraft

protection—what a fuckingmess! Thismirror-smooth sea. TheHalifax.Whatwasthatallabout?Wasitreallycarryingjustonebomb?Acratelikethatmustcarryaloadofthem.“Ifelt—feltit—likeasnakearoundmythroat,”Bremergoesonstammering.This strange figure on the bridge wrapped in a blanket; the pathetic little

handfulofmenontheupperdeck;thissilken,pastelsea.Amasquerade.IfeelIhavetobreakthroughamembraneifI’mtoreachreality.“Lookout!”yellsacontrol-roomassistant,heavingblanketsthroughthehatch

behindhim.Bremertwitchesviolently.He’sstandingintheway.Hebelongstoanotherflotilla,andnoneofourmenknowhim.TheOldMan’s voice is threatening to crack.He has to cough a couple of

timestostopthecroaking.“Diving’sout.”Tooshallow,toomuchcurrent.Sowe’ll justhavetogoondriftingoverthe

minesandwaittilltheTommiescomeback.Stillnofighterprotection!Buttheother boat had been reported!—Nothing works right any more. FuckingHermannGoring.Anchor?Wouldn’t it be better for us to ride at anchor? Nothing could be

worsethanlettingthetidedragusoverthemines.TheOldMancan’twaitmuchlonger.Hehastodecidenow:towaitforthe

Tommies or be like Blücher at Waterloo—just charge straight ahead withoutboom-breakerorminesweeper.

Hescrewsuphisface,thewayhealwaysdoeswhenhe’sthinking.Butnowweactuallygetorderstotheengineroomandthehelmsman.Graduallythebowswingsaroundtowardthesun.JustasIthought:charge!I’mabsolutelywrong.TheOldManordersthedieselrunatslowspeed,just

enoughtoholdtheboatagainstthetide.We’rerunninginplace.

The most beautiful of all mornings at sea. I don’t know whether it’s thesolemngrandeurofthisChristmasmorningorthemiseryontheupperdeckthatbringstearstomyeyes.Asobrisesinmythroat.Itrytochokeitback.Mustn’tletgo.If theskyhadbeendressed inmourning, inmistanddarkness, thesceneof

theshipwreckedmenmighthavebeeneasier tobear.But this radianceofopalfireandgoldthatfillstheskyandspreadsoutoverthewaterisinsuchagonizingcontrasttothehalf-drownedsailorswhostandrevealedonourupperdeckthatIwanttocryout.Theycrowdtogether,huddledlikesheep,eachmanwrappedina dark-gray blanket. The morning light is too dazzling for me to pick outindividual figures; they form a single darkmass. Two of them still have theircapson.One,astringbeanofaman,mustbetheirFirstWatchOfficer.Theotherisapettyofficer,probably theirNumberOne.Theengine-roomcrewcertainlydidn’tgetout.That’sthewayitalwaysgoes.Theyseemtobebarefoot.Oneofthemhasrolleduphistrousersasthoughhewereplanningtogowading.Our bosun and two of our men are trying to salvage an empty float. He’s

alreadypiledupsixorsevenbright-yellowliferaftsagainstthetower.ApparentlytheOldManwon’ttakeanyofthembelowdecks.Thereisn’tany

point.Afterall,wecan’tdivehere.Andthentherearestillthemines!Leavethepoorbeastswheretheyare.It’s high time the escort turned up. The enemy certainly isn’t going to be

contentwith dropping a single bomb. TheHalifaxmust have reported, so theTommieshaveknownforsometimethatthere’sasecondboatsittingwaitingforanother bomb. Our fucking Navy! The people on shore must have heard theexplosion.Orhavewenomore forcesatourdisposal in thesecoastalwaters?Aren’t there any more patrol boats? Are we sheltering under the ass of theprophet?

Down there below the tower the radiomanHerrmann, our orderly, and twoseamenarebusywiththewounded.Anoldermanfromtheotherboatwasbadlyhit.Hands burned, head a ball of blood. Saltwater on raw flesh!—A shudderrunsthroughme.Icanhardlybeartolook.Herrmarinwrapstheredheadwithgauzebandages,leavingonlytheeyesand

themouthshowing—likeaTuareg.ThenhelightsacigaretteandputsitbetweentheTuareg’s teeth.TheTuaregthankshimwithanod.Theothersaresmokingtoo,somestillsittingintheirsoddenclothesonthewreckageofourgrating.The other boat’s First Watch Officer and their petty officer can’t stop

searchingtheskies,buttheirmenseemindifferent.Twoorthreeevenlettheairoutoftheirlifejacketssothattheycansitmorecomfortably.TheCommanderwantstoknowhowmanymenhavebeenrescued.Icount:

twenty-three on the foredeck; four aft—all severely wounded. That is barelymorethanhalfthecrew.Howcalmtheseais!Likeunusedmetalfoil.I’veneverseenitsosmooth.Not

theslightestbreathofwind.Thenthenavigatorcalls,“Objectattwohundredseventydegrees!”Allbinocularsswingtowardthemagnet:atinydarkspotfloatinginthesilky

blue-gray.Impossibletomakeoutwhatitis.Iputdownmyglassesandsquint.The navigator climbs up on the TBT, leans back at an angle, and raises hisglassesagain.Bremer—openmouthed—peersvaguelyinthedirectionindicated.“Recognizeanything?”ImpatienceintheOldMan’svoice.“No,HerrKaleun!Butthatmustbetheplacewhereshesank,giventheway

the current’s running now. It carried us quite a distance during all that rescuework.”“Hm.”Anothertwoorthreeminutes,thentheOldMansuddenlydecidestohavethe

bowturnedaboutandtoincreasespeed.Welayacourseforthetinydot.What’sheupto,tearingaroundinthesemine-infestedwatersonaccountofa

crateoranoldoilbarrel?Temptingfate?Hasn’thedoneenoughofthat?Fiveminutespass.Thenthenavigator,whohasn’tloweredhisglassesforso

muchasasecond,saysinanimpassivevoice:“Someoneswimmingoverthere!”“Thoughtso!”theOldMananswers,justascoolly.

Someone swimming! It must be nearly an hour since Bremer’s boat wentdown.We’ve been staring ourselves blind, all of us. And there was nothing,nothingatalltodisturbthemirroredperfectionofthesea.TheOldManordersmorespeed.Ihavemybinocularstomyeyes,andaswe

approach I toobegin tomakeout the figureofaman.Hisheadshowsclearlyabovethebulgeofhislifejacket.Andnowhe’sliftinganarm.Themenontheupperdeckhavesurgedforward,untiltheyareclutchingthe

net guard. Hope no one goes overboard at this point. My heart is pounding.Someonereallyismovingoutthere!Ouraceofanavigatorknewrightawaythatitwasnoflotsamhewaslookingat.Iclimbdowntheironrungsontheoutsideofthetowertotheupperdeck:I

wanttoseethesailorthey’reabouttopulloutofthedrink.God,Iwanttocry,yououghttobethrowingyourarmsaroundthenavigator’sneck.Thatwasoneina thousand.OnlyKriechbaumcouldhavepulledoffsomething like this.Heneverstopsusinghiseyes—orhishead,forthatmatter.Nowtheyhavehim.Barefoot.Eighteenyearsoldatmost.Waterpouringoff

him.Heleansagainstthetowerbutmanagestokeeptohisfeet.Inodencouragingly.Withoutsayingaword.Now’snotthetimetoaskhow

hemanagedtoworkhiswayoutofthesunkenboat.Mustbeastoker.Probablytheonlyonewhogotoutoftheaftership.Butwhy

didittakesolong?Whatwenton?Whoknowswhathisstoryis.Nevertheless,Isay,“Manalive—lucky,weren’tyou?”Theyoungsterpants,thennods.NumberOneappearswithblankets.Neverthoughthecouldbesotender:he

wraps theboyup just likeamother. Jesus,heoughtn’t tohavedone that.Theyoungstercollapses,beginstosob,histeethchattering.“Handover a cigarette,”NumberOneordersoneofour sailors. “Comeon,

lightit!Andfast!”Cautiously he lowers the boy onto the gratings, props his back against the

tower, and pushes the cigarette into his mouth. “Here, take the butt. Go on,smokeit!”

“Ship’stime?”

“08.10hours!”Theescortwasdueat08.00.God!Mylifejacketisbeginningtobotherme.Luckyfor themenon theupperdeck that there’snowindandwehave this

mildweather.ChristmasDay—andnotcold.Thesunwillsoonbeup,butstillweought to see to it that theyget somethingon their feet,After all,wedon’tneedourseaboots.NumberOnehasalreadyhadallavailableclothingcarteduptothem,sweatersespecially.Iclimbdowntocollectsomefootwear.As I pass through the Officers’Mess I stop dead, thunderstruck. The First

WatchOfficerhasgothistypewriteroutandisabouttostartpeckingaway.I’mspeechless:This is toomuch! I snortdisapprovingly,buthedoesn’t even lookup, lust jabsat thekeyswithhis indexfingerandkeepshisstonyseagulleyesfixedstraightdown.Iwouldreallylovetotakehismachineandbeathimoverthe headwith it. Instead ofwhich Imerely say, “You’re nuts,”workmywayfarther forward and roar, “Get going—move it, seaboots this way! Move it,man!”What can he be pecking out right now?A report of our arrival?God only

knows.Perhapsit’sareceiptforBremer,aproperlytypedacknowledgmentthatwe’vetakenhimaboardtogetherwithhalfhiscrew.Achain issoonorganized.Thebootscomeupfast. Iclimbupafter the last

pair.AshoutfromBremer’snavigator.“Theescort!”Hepointsforward.And there, for a fact, are smoke clouds rising over the horizon. “Too late,

gentlemen!”growlstheOldMan.RightnexttomyearIhearaviolent,staccatorattle.Iturnmyhead.Mygod,

it’stheotherCommander.Histeetharechattering.The sun comes up and the sea is iridescent taffeta. The blue outline of the

approachingboom-breakerandallhersuperstructuresstandsoutsharplyagainsttheredball.Over therivermouthhangswollen,misshapenclouds,shaded thesubtleblue-grayofdoves’feathers.Abrokenmauve-redspreadsacrossthesky,andthehighestcloudssuddenlyareborderedinbrocade.Myeyesburn as I stare at the soaringdiskof the sun.TheBibleScholar’s

SalvationArmyjingleechoesinmyhead.

Glorious,gloriousthatday,When,nomoresin,nomoredismay,WemarchintothePromisedLand…

“Crazythewaythingsworkout,”saystheOldMan—inanaside,soBremerwon’thearhim,“Noweverythingchecksagain:Onlyoneboatwasexpectedandonlyoneturnsup.”He’sbeensizinguptheboom-breaker.“Veryprettytub,agoodeightthousand

tons.Onlytwosmallderricks.Whered’yousupposetheygotthem?…Whatintheworldisthat?”Thelastwordsaredrawledoutonarisingnote.NowIsee it too:shipaftershipcomingover thehorizonbehind theboom-

breaker.“Gentlemen,youflatterus!”theOldMansays,tonooneinparticular.Thenontheboom-breakerasunbeamsout.“Callfromboombreaker.”“Alreadynoted,SecondWatchOfficer.Hurryupwiththesignallamp.Let’s

seewhattheywant.”The searchlight goes out, flashes again. The Second Watch Officer reads

aloud:C-o-r-d-I-a-l-w-e-l-c-o-m-e.“Nodoubtthere’smoretoitthanthat!”W-h-a-t-h-a-v-e-y-o-u-s-u-n-k.“That’smeant for you,” the Commander says, turning to Bremer, who has

optedtoremainbelowinthebridgecockpitandnowlooksshrunkenincontrasttotherestofusuphere.Bremerglancesatushelplessly.“Windbags,” says the SecondWatch Officer, his eyes fixed on the boom-

breaker.“Nextthingweknowthey’llbesendingusChristmasgreetings!”“Oh thehellwith it!” theOldMan says finally. “We’ll simply consider the

questionaddressedtous.Getmoving,signalthem‘Twofatfreighters.’Thekeyofthesignallampclicks.Afewseconds’pause,thenbackcomes:H-

e-a-r-t-y-c-o-n-g-r-a-t-u-l-a-t-I-o-n-s.TheOldManmakesafaceandbiteshislowerlip.“What do you think, shall we give them an explanation?” he asks the

navigator.

“Justkeepgoing,HerrKaleun.They’llsoonnoticewhoitisthey’vebroughtin!”Ifthereareeyesbehindthoseglasses,Ithink,theymusthaveseenthesailors

onourupperdecklongago.ThiskindofmakebelieveisunusualintheU-boatservice. And the rubber rafts our Number One made such a neat pile of arehardlyausualfeatureoftheupperdecksofreturningboats.Theymustbeawarethat something has been going on here. And that it may begin again at anymoment.TheTommieswillbeback.Theywon’tletusgetoffscot-free.Itrytocalmdown:Inanycasewe’llsoonbesafefromthemines.Andifan

airplanechoosestoattacknow,it’llencounterconsiderablymorefirepowerthantwohoursago.Theboom-breaker iswellequippedwithanti-aircraftguns,andthehordeofescortvesselsnowarrivingalsohavetheirownsupplyofpopguns.But theOldMandoesn’t seem to find thismuchcomfort.Againandagainhescowlsashesearchesthesky,whichisgraduallyshadingintoblue.“They always know when something’s wrong,” says the Second Watch

Officer,meaningtheseagulls,whicharecirclingtheboatinflocks.The gulls catch the golden light on their feathers and emit shrill, plaintive

cries.Astheyglideoverus,theyturntheirheadssearchinglyfromsidetoside.

Ihavenoearfortheorderstotheengineroomandthehelmsman.Hardlyaneye for the approaching armada. I can’t get over theway they’re spewing outsmokesobrazenly:infrontofthemthere’sagreatthickwreathofitagainstthepastelbackgroundofthemorningsky.Perhapsthey’retryingtodivertattentioniftheenemyappearsagain—toconcentrateitonthemselvesinsteadofus.OncemoreIhavemyhandsfull,collectingandhandingoverasteadysupply

ofblanketsandshoes. I finallybecomeawareofa fireboat, justas shearrivesbroadonour starboardbeam.Herblack flanks are coveredwith rashesof redlead.Minuteslaterthere’sadarkcolossustostarboard.It’sadredgethatworksconstantlyaroundheretokeepachannelopenformajorshipping.NowfinallyIcanfindtimetopickupapairofbinocularsandlookoutover

ourbow.Theshoreisstillonlyathinline,buttherearecranesthere,assmallastoys; I can also see individual figures on the boom-breaker, which is nowdirectlyinfrontofus.Andthecourseit’sholdingistakingusstraighttowardthecoast.

Wehave towait in theouterbasin.Oursailors ready the lineson theupperdeck,movingamongthewoundedwiththeutmostcare.A message from the signal tower. The navigator reads it out: “Enter

immediately!”Throughourbinocularswe seeabridgeopening in frontofus.Alreadywecanmakeout a crowdofpeopleon thepier.Thankgod,nobrassbands.Afewseagullsscreech,andthesoundisdeafeninginthestrangesilencethat

descends as the boat creeps slowly between the mosscovered walls of thechannel.Fromthepiersmallbouquetsof flowerswith twigsof fir tiedaroundthemaretosseddowntous.Noonepicksthemup.Theoldrevulsionagainstthepeopleupthere.Iknowthateveryonestanding

here on the bridge feels the same way. We’re like irritable animals, reactingviolentlytoanyfalsegesture.Shrillwhistling,asignaltothemooringcrewontheupperdeck.Thehawsers

lieneatlycoiledandready,foreandaft.Likewiseourthickbasketfenders.Thin lines fly over to the pier, soldiers catch them and pull in the heavy

hawsers attached to theother end.Sailors come to their aid andmake fast thehawserstothemassiveironpiles.Thescrewsstirupthebrackishwaterastheyslowlydrawtheboatin.“Stopengine!Crewfallinontheafterdeck!”theCommander’svoicesounds

hoarse.The men up there can see our shattered upper deck, the shipwrecked men

huddled together like sheep, thewounded. I findmyself looking intohorrifiedfaces.Thegangwayispushedout.Itslantssharplyupward:We’reunitedoncemore

withsolidearth.Even before I hear the buzz, I can feel it as part of the very air I breathe:

planes!The sound is coming from theocean: the swarmwe’vebeenexpecting.All

heads are raised. The humming grows louder, deepens into a steady thunder.Already the flak is cutting loose. There—out over the sea—tinywhite cloudslikewadsofcottonhanginthesky.Aflashoflight:thewingofaplane.NowIcanseeblackdots:five—sixbombers.Seven.It’sanarmada!

Apiercingsnarlsuddenlycuts into thefuriousbarkingofa four-barrelanti-aircraftgun.Shadowsflitacrossthestorehouses.Thingsflyapart.TheOldManisshouting.“Quick,getoutofhere!Headforthebunker!”His

voicecracks.Alreadyahailofbulletsistearingintothepavingstones,splinteringthemin

alldirections—pursuitplanes!They’renotafterus.They’re trying to silence the anti-aircraft posts. It’s a combined attack by

fightersandbombers.Hereandtherethepierexplodesintofountainsofrubble.Fragmentsofstone

sailthroughtheairwithastrangedeliberation.I’mstillalmosttwohundredfeetfromthearmoreddoorofthebunker,which

the people inside have pulled shut, leaving the narrowest possible entrance. Ileapforward,mykneesbuckleagain,Ifeelasharppaininmythighs.LegslikewobblystiltsthatIcan’tcontrol.Iseemtohaveforgottenhowtorun.Screams, littlewhitepuffsofcloudin thesky,howlingsirens, therattleand

snap of machine-gun fire, and the sudden barking of the medium-sized flak,salvoaftersalvocrashingout inunendingsuccession.Everykindofexplosionfollowingitsownrhythminasingle,appallingcacophony.Smoke,mushroomsofdust,andinbetweenthegraybodiesofaircraft.Whichareours,whicharetheTommies’?Irecognizeadouble-tailedLightning,andhighupahornetswarmofbombers.Ihearthesharpyappingoflightflak,theclatterofmachineguns,thechirping

whineofsplinters.Planesroarandscream.Fartheroff,theheavyflakrumblesatthemlikesomemightyearthquake.They’recominginateveryheight.In front ofme is a grotesque ballet, choreographed by somemadman on a

paved stagewith themammoth structure of theU-boat bunker as a backdrop:figures throwing themselves to the ground, running zigzag, dropping to theirknees, whirling into the air, sweeping together in tight formation, only to flyapart again, surging thisway and that.Oneman throws his arms into the air,spins in a pirouette, and sinks down in a deep, court curtsy, his palmsoutstretchedinreverence.Againtheroaringsweepspast.Aninvisiblefiststrikesmeinthebackofthe

knees.Slammeddownonthepavingstones,Itryconvulsivelytomakeaword

outoftheonlyfragmentinmybrain:atro—atro…Renewedhowling.Ablastofairpinsmetothegroundasplaneafterplaneroarsover.Atrophy!Abomberdisintegratesinthesky.Fragmentsofwingstumbledown.Thetail

landswithacrashbehindthebunker.Icanhardlybreathefordustandsmoke.Armsflailing, I reach theconcretewall, squeeze through theslit in thebunkerdoor,falloversomeonelyingonthefloor,hitmyforehead,rolltooneside.Therattleofgunfiresoundsduller.Irunmyhandovermyforehead,amnot

surprisedatthestickyfeelofblood.Themanbesidemeisgroaningandholdinghisstomach.Asmyeyesaccustomthemselvestothehalf-darknessIrecognizehim:grayoil-smearedclothes—mustbefromourboat—Zeitler.Someonetakesmeundertheshouldersfrombehindandtriestoliftmetomy

feet.“I’mallright,thanks!”Istandup,stagger,eyes fogged,still supportedby themanbehind.Thefog

clears. Icanstandalone.Then there isanenormousboomthatalmostshattersmy eardrums. Thewhole bunker is one titanic, reverberating drum. The floorshakesunderme.Fromtheroofabovethefirstoftheflooddocks—whichIcanjust see into—huge lumps of concrete rain down, splash into the water, andpoundtheboatthat’slyingatthepier.Suddenlyabrilliantlightbreaksthroughaholeinthebunkerroof.Light!Ipropmyselfup.Theholeisagoodtenfeetbyten.Ironmattingwiththicklumpsofconcrete

caught in it is left hanging where the roof once was. The matting moves,showeringdownmoreslabsofconcrete.Thewaterinthedockcontinuestobreakagainst thepiers.Mygod, twenty-

four feet of solid concrete blasted into nothing! It’s never happened before.Cries,orders.Asmuchrunningaboutinsidethebunkerastherewasoutside.Bunkerroofsweresupposedtobesafeagainstbombsofanysize.Where’sallthesteamcomingfrom?Outside, the furious shooting and rolling thunder continue unabated, like

somemighty,distantstorm.Ahugecloudofdustsettles.Ihaveafurrytasteonmytongue.Nomoreair.A

rackingcough.Ihavetoleanagainstthewall,myheadrestingonmyforearm.

Air!All Iwant isair! I’msmothering. I forcemywayback to thearmoreddoor throughasolidwallofhumanity,knockaside twoshipyardworkerswhotrytobarmypath,andpushmywaythroughthenarrowopening.Nothingbutblack,oilysmoke:somethingmusthavescoredahitonafueltank.I’mwrong:Thewholeharborbasinisablaze.Onlythecranesriseunmoved

out of the billowing clouds of fiery smoke. There’s a sharp crackling and thewailofasteamsirenthatwillnotstop.Ilooktotheright,inthedirectionofthelock.Theskyisclearerhere.Isee

tornwarehouseroofs,housesbombedtopilesofrubble.Bentwiresandjaggedstripsofirontearatmyfeet.IalmostfallintoacraterthatIfailedtoseeinthesmoke. A man lying wounded raises himself up at me, madness in his eyes.Groans and whimpers everywhere. There must be hundreds more like him,hiddenbythedustandsmoke.Theboat!Whathashappenedtotheboat?Agustofwind lifts thecurtainof smoke. Iclimb through railingsbent into

hoops, swerve around two dead men, run past ruins of redpainted iron. Asmokingpileofrocksslidesintothewaterinfrontofme.God,thatwasthepier!And the boat?Where is it? I suddenly see a slab of steel towering out of thewater like a gigantic plowshare—and attached to it a net guard. The bow!Wooden debris bobs about in thewater.Water? It’s oil!And the black lumpsmovingaboutinthere:three—four—more—areallhumanbeings.Thesestrangewatercreatures inamong theburstingbubblesmustallbemen fromourboat.AndtheOldMan?What’shappenedtohim?Abannerofsmokestreamsacrossthe scene. Shouts from behind me: a long, ragged line of soldiers anddockworkers is heading my way. Two trucks, sirens screaming, are racingtowardme,swervingalongbetweenthecratersinamadslalom.And there in thehaze I see theOldMan,streamingwithblood,hissweater

andshirttorntoshreds.Hiseyes,whichwerealwaysnarrowed,arewide,wideopen.Atalmostthesamemomentwesinktoourknees,bracingourarmsonthesplintered stones, and face each other like two Sumowrestlers. TheOldManopenshismouthasthoughtoletlooseagreatshout.Butallthatgushesfromhislipsisblood.

Copyright1975byAlfredA.Knopf,Inc.All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright

Conventions.PublishedintheUnitedStatesbyAlfredA.Knopf,Inc.,NewYork.DistributedbyRandomHouse,Inc.,NewYork.OriginallypublishedinWestGermanyasDasBootbyR.Piper&Co.Verlag,

Munich.Copyright©1973byR.Piper&Co.Verlag.