My War

From Wormhole Sci-Fi MUD Homepage

a short story by 'Artoo'

My part in the war was on the submarine U97. I joined the crew to replace a watchman lost overboard in a storm, the boat’s only casualty. The captain was no Nazi. He was an officer of the old school, with ancestors in the nobility of the Austro–Hungarian Empire. He proved to be a daring leader, but the risks he took brought us success, and he must have known that we held him in high regard.

It became known as the Happy Time. Convoys of the Allies’ shipping would be shepherded across the Atlantic, and we would gather in packs to slip into the flocks and strike time after time. By day we were submersed, creeping through the murky water on battery power. At night we would surface and travel under diesel power, refreshing our air and recharging the cells. We often struck at night. Every ship sunk meant less food for Britain; less tanks for Russia. A little at a time, we were winning the war.

If we had any reason to worry, it was the strange open sores that the crew regularly suffered. These wounds could appear on various parts of the body, usually surrounded by a swelling which would then fade to a bruise. Nobody could identify a cause; they were not mosquito bites or anything similar. We patrolled too far north for mosquitoes.

A vitamin deficiency was one theory. Certainly, the quality of supplies fell in the closing months of the war, and problems such as scurvy may have arisen on some boats. The sores healed in the fresh air when we had extended shore leave while the boat was refitted, but none of the other crews had ever heard of an ailment like ours. Our medical officer (a man with two years training towards being a doctor before the war started) couldn’t put an end to the appearance of these wounds. His only advice was: keep them as clean as possible.

The Happy Time ended. Our prey began to hit back with new weapons, and soon we were hearing news of our own losses. Our job became harder and many of the other boats were lost. We were fortunate to survive until news of the Fuhrer’s death came, and then the order to surrender.

One morning in May 1945, as arranged by radio, we surfaced and the crew gathered on the forward casing as an American destroyer approached. It came to a halt about 100 meters off the port side and a dinghy was lowered. Suddenly, our boat began to sink! We all had to swim for the destroyer and climb up a net, one or two of my surprised crewmates coughing up seawater. The Americans were furious that our boat had been scuppered, but our surrender was formally accepted. The officers handed over their pistols, and it was only at this point that I realised the captain was missing. Uniform regulations had always been relaxed while out on patrol, so the first officer successfully passed himself off as the captain. I was bewildered, but under the watchful glare of the chief engineer, none of the crew said anything.

During the time we spent as prisoners of war I accounted for everyone else. Only the Captain had stayed on the boat. Eventually, though it was a major breach of conduct, I cornered the first officer and demanded an explanation.

“You admired the Captain as much as any of us, didn’t you Dieter?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“His skill gave us success, and he brought us safely through the War. I think we should allow him his privacy. I imagine he’s long dead by now, but he chose to keep his dignity.”

I still didn’t understand. “He’d done nothing wrong. We were at war...”

“Indeed, but the Captain couldn’t present himself on deck for the surrender,” he said. “Think about it: U-boats rarely surface during the hours of daylight. Did you ever see the Captain ashore in daylight when we were in Bremen?"

Thinking back, I had to admit that I hadn't.

"No. Sunlight disagreed with him.”

“Oh?”

“Like a stake through the heart.”