U-96 - Depth Charge Attack

Nothing ever happens. We sail in limbo. Waiting for orders, ships, convoys - hell, even a goddamn plane. Nothing ever comes. The same routine, day in, day out. On watch or off. Not much difference really, you still get just as bored whether you're sat in your bunk or perched on the bridge. On one occasion, you're carrying the heavy weight of the binoculars around your neck. Scan your sector slowly, look without the binoculars, and repeat. When you're off watch, the only thing you carry around your neck is your own mood.

My watch was over. I clambered down the cold steel ladder, my knees almost buckling from the sudden exercise. I pulled my sou'wester off and began to struggle with the boots. That always happens, the water gets into them and makes the stick fast to your legs. I managed to wrestle them off and place them in the drying queue, before retreating to my bunk. I collapsed in it. A small 3 X 6 rectangle of comfort. But it wasn't to be that for long.

I had just drawn the curtain, and closed my eyes, when a shrill bell began resounding throughout the boat. Alarm.

It took a few seconds for the occurence to register. I had to haul my ass out of the bunk and to my battlestation - the control room again. I rolled over the railing and hit the floor feet first with a loud thud. I was suprised at the speed at which I did this - so much so infact that I lost my footing and fell through the hatch.

The commander, a tall, dark haired man slid down the ladder after the last of the watch crew and let a string of curses escape. He ordered the boat down to 60 meters. What happened? Whats up there? I kept these questions to myself.

It took a good 2 minutes to get to 60 meters. The commander had the engines slowed - that means a warship above. He doesnt want us to make a racket. Not a sound aboard the boat, except the slow, rhythmic hum of our motors. I looked at the commander, he was leant against the observation periscope, stroking his chin and staring off into space. Now what?

"Both engines ahead slow. Rudder 25 degrees to starboard." came the deep voiced order.

"Both engines indicate ahead slow. Rudder at 15 degrees and still turning"

The commander looked at me and grinned. "Seems as though they have lost interest in us already. Was it something I said?" I grinned back, and there were snickers from around the compartment. The commander ducked into the radio and hydrophone cubbyhole and knelt beside the operator, who was leaning his right ear toward his device, in deep concentration. His eyes flicked to the commander and he whispered a report, most of which I couldnt pick up from where i was stood. No-one dared move.

I looked at the depth meter. 60 meters. 30 meters off our operating depth. I remember hearing that this boat has taken a depth of 190 meters before, I silently hoped that I wouldnt have to witness that first hand.

The chief appears from around the periscope and wipes off the Papenberg with a greasy rag. He mutters to himself and takes a quick look at all the instruments. The commander ducks back through the hatch and paces, looking at everyone gathered there.

"So." He says, after a long pause. "He has a babysitter."

Distant explosions. A distinctive "phoom". "Way astern of us." The commander grins "Their aim is as crooked as their teeth." More chuckles.

Then it hits us. That repulsive sound. That one singular chime that sends shivers down everyones spine. *ping*...*ping*...

The commander is no longer wearing his grin. He's staring at the ceiling, as if he could somehow see through it and up above. "Rig the boat for silent running chief, not a sound." The chief disables a few pumps and compressors, and lowers the engines to 50 rpms.

"Midships." the commander whispers. The rudder needle returns to its origin.

The pinging has become more frequent. The sound of the destroyer overhead is almost defeaning. "vooshvooshvooshvoosh" then the dull "phoom" - turmoil in the boat. The lights flicker and go out, everyone yells. Then it stops. Silence again. The lights flicker and illuminate us again. The control room mate has a light gash on his head. The chief frisks about with the agility of a squirrel, tightening this and that and making sure everything is still in order.

"How does it look, Chief?" The commander enquires. "No substantial damage" comes the reply. "Okay, lets try doubling back. Rudder hard to port. Both engines ahead one third."

The engines whirr into life again, and the rudder needle moves across the dial.

"Deeper chief."

The hydroplanes make a light fizz sound and begin adjusting, the boat now taking a noticeable bow slant. The depth needle begins to quiver and move. 70, 80, 90. More charges. Nowhere near us.

"That'll do Chief. Level off, rig for silent running again." "Jawohl Herr Kaleun." the whirring stops. Eyes everywhere look upwards. More pings. Again and again, the shrill sound. Louder and more frequent. More charges rain down. The lights flicker, and the floor plates rattle, more and more charges detonate near us, sending a jet of water in through the Papenburg. The Chief yells across the compartment, someone is there in an instant, controlling and stopping the leak.

The pings dont come back. Running away? The commander ducks into the hydrophone compartment and looks at the operator. He turns a volume knob and shakes his head, frowning. The commander does the same. After some minutes, the commander asks for a contact report. Nothing. Nothing?! They gave up on us?

The commander ducks back into the control room and leans against the chart table, spitting into the bilge and straightening his white topped cap. "Hm". More silence. "Hmm.."