My Boot tends to run on the surface, to the point that I suspect the crew have nicknamed me "Herr Tower-Dry" since the only time I dive is when I'm actually under attack by a surface vessel or more than two aircraft. 'Course, it's still 1941 so things aren't too bad on the surface unless you bump a destroyer or something equally bad.

Encountered an armed merchantman, increased engine revolutions for twenty knots and began thanking the Norse Gods of the Sea for the supercharger installed on my beloved VIIB boat. Smooth sea, clear sky, full watch crew on deck, smooth thrumming of the engine belowdecks and aft of my place on the tower. A flash at range, a whistling groan and the flashing transit of a tracer shell by the left side of the tower that splashes down a good two hundred, three hundred metres from my boat.

"Five degrees starboard."

Nose of the boat just ahead of the merchantman, a big C2 - I'd normally kill him with my deckgun, but I don't want to spend that many rounds on him this close to England, the birds will be by soon. There's only a "Flakzweilling" on the aft of my tower, and she's got a good gunner and a total of three kills painted onto her gun-shield, but I'd rather not tempt fate. Another shell flashes by, I turn to my Watch Officer, crouched down to the rim of the tower.

"Man the deck gun, Leutnant."

The cheeky Englishman on the gun fires another round that goes so high overhead its almost laughable. I swing down the side of the conning tower, make my way forwards along the deck to the gunner and clap him on the shoulder, tell him to fire one round. The 88mm rocks back in its cradle, the round sings out, impacts squarely on the bridge. Another two rounds and the funnel is dismounted and smoking darkly, the bridge seems disabled. The Seaman commanding the gun jokingly asks if I'd like to take a few shots.

This is the boat of Kaleun Tower-Dry; the only Type VIIB that thinks its a Zerstoerer. Of course I'll take a shot, alte kamerad. Loaded! The crashing report of the magnificient "Eighty Eight," the same backwards slam of the gun's breech, and the majestic arc of the round as it transects sky to bash a gap in the hull beside the forward gun mount on this C2, range now two kilometres and closing.

Another few shots and the gun is destroyed, the crew probably bloodied and battered or shredded by blast and shrapnel. Combat at sea never looks bloody because you never want to get so close that you can see the crew's struggles to survive on a burning ship. Ordering the guncrew belowdecks, I climb the tower after the last man has begun to drop down the ladder to the control room and stand by the UZO. My watch officer still stands low on the tower, though the Merchantman can no longer return fire.

Through the UZO's magnification I examine the boat once more. Dismasted, burning bridge and gun emplacement. Tube One, Tube Two, open doors. My magnified view sweeps over the boat once more - the Red Ensign! A Canadian vessel! My experiences thus far have taught me to fear the Canadian merchant marine and the Royal Canadian Navy more than the RN and their merchants, for both are more tenacious than usual - once a boat with her bow to the skies as she slid beneath the waves took a shot at my boat with her forward gun before the bow too disappeared under the roiling grey of the sea. Tenacious indeed - we picked up the Maple Leaf Forever from a Canadian radio broadcast and sang along in honour of that kind of tenacity.

Doors open? Doors open. Range, eight hundred metres. Set speed on steamtorps to fast; a quick rifle shot as she weaves and dodges. Recalculate the solution quickly as we close to within six hundred metres - Tubes One, Two, Fire! Torpedo Los! Twin white trails on the surface. Reload both tubes, ready tubes Three and Four.

One impact on the bow, she immediately dips under with the stern rising high, but not high enough to evade the second mackerel that forces the steel to give way in a rendering scream under the hammering force of the blast and exposes the engine room as well as her forward cargo hold to the cold seas of the mid-Atlantic.

Watch Crew back on deck, replacing the lonely Flak gunner on his emplacement that took the place of the Deck Gun crew. Engine rpms down to Ahead Standard; for us only a short patrol, mannen. Aircraft Spotted! I swing the binoculars up, catch the dark shapes flying towards us - There's too many, at least four.

ALAAARM! We crash-dive, racing the C2 beneath the waves. Our conning tower dips beneath a moment after the holed C-2's bridge and I order the Chief to make our depth a bare fifty metres. Explosions overhead. Current depth fifty metres, Herr Kaleun.

Engines down to one third to conserve battery power. Engines off, let's sit still gentlemen, our sharp portside turn is over with rudder amidships. Blasts as the wasserbomben drop into the ocean and detonate a few moments later. We listen to them echo through the water, I order the gramophone on for something to do after a careful sweep with our hydrophones to listen for any engine noises - and nothing. We sing; Erika, the U-Boat Song, some songs about our Army comrades.

Off with the gramophone, bring speed up to ahead standard to make this quick, it's been thirty minutes under the waves and Tower Dry wishes to let the sun dry his conning tower before night falls. Periscope depth, and make my way to the Observation 'scope - angle it so the bottom of the lens traces the horizon and the rest watches the sky. Angle as high as you can after that initial sweep, nothing. Surface the boat! Chief Mannesmann stands imperious by the valves; our boat cannot sink while he stands there, the Gods do not wish his displeasure upon Valhalla or whatever afterlife there is for us. I laugh at the thought and clamber up the ladder as the surface slaps the hull, standing aside in the control tower as the watch crew and officer take the command tower. Man on deck? I climb up.

The sun is setting and the orange-red light makes for a beautiful scene. I consider abducting an artist on the next shore-leave and fitting him and his paints into the Boot. Excellent Zeiss optics to my eyes, scan the horizon constantly and check the sky as well as we steam away from our patrol grid, our task long since completed, before the planes had arrived and forced me to dive.

Oh, Hell. Something on the horizon, neither myself or the watch officer can determine what that vessel is from where we stand despite the aid of our wonderous German optics or the UZO device. Under orders, our Chief brings the boat's engine up to produce flank speed, we race ahead for this large looking vessel might just be something worth sinking before our slow sail back into Lorient.

We are within three kilometres before she turns in a fashion that lets us see what she is properly in the glare of the sun and the thickening evening's mist. What she is, is a Red Ensign-flying destroyer of the Tribal class. God in his heaven, but how she hasn't spotted us yet... dismount the UZO and bring it belowdecks, WO, I'm on my way as well. Prepare to dive the boat! I slide down the ladder, stopping to dog the hatch down tightly before landing in a crouch on the decking of the control room, hands still on the salt water-damp ladder's rails. I stand and shrug out of my jacket as the sea begins to rise over our tower, and the sonar operator leans into his headphones.

I step forward to check with him and find him hunched forwards, eyes glued to the dial to his front, face focused with serene concentration. He is an old hand; all of the new men on the boat are working the engines under the supervision of our "Old Hands," men who seem to be one with the grumbling diesels or whining electrics. He looks up at me, mouthing the words "Direction shift." He gives me a bearing a moment later. I call it back to the command room. I go back through the hatch and he calls out again. I think the boat has spotted us. Run silent, Chief, and bring us down to one hundred metres. South Easterly course, thank you - I would like to head back to Lorient in the process of our evasion if possible. Bring the rpms down to two knots.

Stay calm, he doesn't have us yet and he won't because he's listening for a hole in the water, gentlemen. Hole in the water. Sound lashes our hull and I sigh. Unnessecarily, the sonarman lets us all know we're "being pinged, sir."
"Thank you, yes, this is self-evident. The sky is also blue. Bearing?"

An accurate bearing, slight chuckles from all the crew. Hold steady. I imagine his engines jumping to full speed to produce the top knots that boat can muster. Again with the sonar. And he's lost us, hoping we're not running too quickly. Sonarman lets us know he's overhead, just a second later comes the warning of the depth-charges. I turn to the chief, nod, and the boat springs to life with the groan then whine of the electrics spinning up to flank speed and we jump away. Radical course alteration as the depth-charges explode in a string well astern of the VIIB.

RPMs down to one third propulsion. I watch a clock. Three minutes pass. We swing down into a lower speed once again to maintain silent running - he will have turned around by now and be listening. The depth-gauge reads 125. I walk over to the Navigation Officer, tell him to let me know how many metres below our keel just to confirm what the charts say. Active sonar, the lashing soundwaves don't hit us but do mask the noise as he triggers the device that bounces sound off the bottom.

"Depth under keel is five metres."
"All engines stop!"

We coast to a stop. Our sonar operator hears more engines. Eventually we estimate there are four boats overhead, all pinging and listening, sailing in zig-zags. They seem to be heading away, so I order ahead one third, periscope depth. I scan with the observation scope once more. At one hundred and eighty degrees the 'scope picks up a destroyer bearing straight down on me, and I blanch and recoil from the eyepiece screaming "DIVE! DIVE!" I bring the optic down and the engines begin screaming at their maximum capacity as we slam the boat downwards as deep as we can. Hammering concussions of depth charges bounce us downwards cruelly, we regain control at 132 metres. According to our best guess, we're maybe three metres off the dirt of the bottom. We catch our breath and wait.

So many depth charges. The running tally increases hugely. I begin to wonder if the C2 we'd sank earlier was carrying the Virgin Mary and Baby Jesus, the way they're trying to kill us. A string of depthcharges slams us into the bottom and there is a scream of "DAMAGE AFT! I NEED PLUGS! NOW! NOW! FASTER!" I get out of the way as wood is hustled through the control room and the repairs are made.

Eventually a sailor, soaking wet, comes to the control room. "Hull slightly damaged, repairs complete, all equipment back online." I nod, he returns to his station, and we sit there on the bottom as silently as possible. One man tries to stifle a sneeze and eventually settles for burying his head in his arms to mask the noise, causing us all to grin - it looks strange, white teeth against dirty skin, a strange expression when there is a very good chance of instantaneous death under the hammering pressure of the Atlantic.

Oh well, such is our lot. Hours pass. The destroyers leave. We wait longer. Then we begin to surface, very carefully letting our keel pull free of the mud. We move several kilometres. Scan repeatedly with the periscopes. Then surface and recharge the batteries. To Lorient and French mistresses, gentlemen. The ocean will wash our keel clean for us.

--

And such are my patrols whenever I encounter the Royal Canadian Navy. My countrymen are beginning to piss me off, I might just have to tell some stories like this to a RCN vet the next time I meet one the old "Greyhairs."