Free Blackest of Lies by Bill Aitken

target and was soon joined in the tower by Leutnant Willi Grassl, the Navigation Officer.  The boat was now gliding along at a depth of 10.5 metres - perfect for this sort of work.
    Things were coming together.  “Clear first and third tubes!” shouted Beitzen, automatically registering the expected reply of ‘First and third tubes clear!’ from the torpedo gunner’s mate down below.
    “Torpedo depth 4.5 metres!”
    .”.. 4.5 metres it is!”
    “Twenty degrees more to port, Karl.”
    The minutes dragged by as Beitzen aimed the boat towards the steamer in his sights.  A faint column of smoke from escorting destroyers smudged the sky behind.  Things could get hot if he missed and had to put in a repeat performance.  “Give me 10 degrees more.”
    “Five men ready to dress the boat!” he called.  When the torpedoes were loosed, the change in trim could easily cause the nose of the boat to lunge above the surface, gift-wrapped for the Royal Navy, as it were.  The five man team would rush through the open bulkheads from one end of the boat to the other until balance was achieved.  Afterwards, they could make things permanent by re-distributing stores.
    “Warrant Officer - note the name of the ship – the SS Farewell .  A quiet chuckle floated up from the crew down below.  An omen, surely, but Stolz gripped the wheel tightly.  “God in Heaven, how close do you have to be to read the bloody name!” he whispered.  Beitzen brought him back to the matter in hand with a bump as he leapt back from the scope.
    “Heads up!  Lower periscope and dive full speed to 20 metres ... hard a-port ... both engines full speed ahead!”
    The words had barely left his mouth when a grinding wrench announced the loss of the periscope as the Farewell , her captain feeling that something was wrong, made an unexpected turn to throw off the aim of any enemy with designs on her.  Beitzen called for silence.  The submarine seemed pretty much still in one piece but perhaps they had been seen and more was to come.  Up above, propellers slowed to a halt.
    “OK Karl, bring us up gently.  Standby periscope up.”
    Suddenly, everything happened at once.  “Clear first tube ... fire!”  Within seconds, a violent concussion told its own story.  The Farewell was for the bottom.
    “Every man forward!  Take us down to 40 metres, Karl - fast!  Silence in the boat!”
    At 38 metres, they rasped onto the sandy floor of the English Channel.  All pumps, the engines and compass-dynamo were switched off to reduce noise.  Time, now, for the inevitable fireworks as Farewell’s escorts rushed about dropping countless depth charges.  The next half hour was every submariner’s nightmare as the hull was pounded by massive, endless concussions. The crew dashed from leak to leak inside but, in its own good time, the torment subsided and the screws of the escorting destroyers could be heard fading away into the distance.  Throughout the boat a collective sigh floated up into the conning tower as everyone checked each other’s cuts and bruises.  They had survived again.
    During the attack, Stolz detailed the list of course corrections and actions into the steering book, a duty required of the helmsman.  As silence descended upon them, he jerked his attention up from the page.  Beitzen noticed the movement.
    “What is it, Karl?” he said.  Stolz held up his hand for silence and grabbed the earphones.  There was no doubt about it - something was ticking on the outside of the hull.  For a moment he turned the problem over in his mind until it dawned on him and fear contracted his stomach.  He looked up at Beitzen with wide eyes.
    “Kapitän ... Kapitän, I think the steamer has settled on top of us!”
    **********
    Gallagher sensed, rather than felt, the vessel kiss against the Larne pier and, moments later, the gangways being run out.   He bustled ashore with the rest of the passengers – not so quickly as to arouse suspicion but